


Witness Protection

by missilemuse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Kidnapping, Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missilemuse/pseuds/missilemuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU, where John is Jim Moriarty's fiancé. He finds out about Jim's day job and agrees to testify against him. He is put into protective custody under the alias Victor Trevor. Sherlock meets Victor, sparks fly! </p>
<p>Written for a truly unique prompt on the shkinkmeme; so credit for inspiration goes to the OP. No spoilers for season 2 as of now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to ACD's grey cells, and each other in that order... Although the B.B.C. version receives full credit for inspiring me to put a pen to paper.
> 
> Author's notes: This was something I was working on before Reichenbach happened and temporarily derailed it. The story is now on the verge of completion, and I will be posting minimum one part weekly. My first real attempt at S/J, so please be gentle.
> 
> A special mention and a million thanks to my amazing new beta, lady_t_220 for her patience in going though the story, correcting my frankly disastrous punctuation, and plugging plot-holes, which I hadn't even noticed. You're a gem.

 

 

He wasn’t supposed to be in London; hell, he wasn’t supposed to step outside his room after sundown, those were Lestrade’s strict instructions. He didn’t bother pointing out that following instructions had never been his strong suit.

 

Also, Lestrade couldn’t possibly know the biggest danger to his life lay within the featureless four walls of his bedsit. The gun had looked a little too tempting in his hand this morning and it hadn’t even been a month since he had gone into hiding. Afghanistan and its nightmares had been vivid, unforgiving, horrifying even, but never cruel. His nightmares had a new spectrum to them now; Ella would have been pleased! Not that he could go back to her.

 

_Concentrate Watson_ , he ordered himself. They had reached the sixth round of betting. Out of the original eight players, only three were left in the game, including himself. He was all in. It was either this, or shooting himself in the foot just out of sheer boredom. His Army Browning didn’t deserve such a pathetic mess of a target. Not yet, anyway.

  
He had deliberately chosen this disreputable sinkhole of a pub, desiring both anonymity and risk. He could hear the hubbub from the bar below, which he had ignored in favour of the game. Getting drunk was too tempting and far too dangerous in the long run.

  
There were about ten to twelve people milling about the room, observing the game now. Most of them were probably regulars. He concentrated on his fellow players- the one to his right was beefy with two of his front teeth missing, still in the game not due to any skill but instead sheer dumb luck and an abundant amount of money. The other player was old and at least partly drunk judging by the smell that had been wafting over. His eyes were drooping, much of his face obscured by a beard, but he had been making the right calls. He was clearly not as drunk as he intended to appear. _Clever!_

  
John took a deep breath as the final card was dealt out. The atmosphere was thick with expectation though he remained unmoved. The sinking sense of apathy that had been dogging him all night seemed to take firmer hold with every passing moment, up until the last card was flipped over and everything went to hell.

  
The door to their room was suddenly pushed open as two men walked in, guns in hand, heads swivelling as though searching for someone. One of them walked over, overturning the table and sending the cards scattering across the floor.

 

“Game over, folks," he growled

  
The sudden rush of adrenaline in John's veins was almost euphoric. Ah, this was what he'd been searching for.

 

The low thrum of conversation in the room had come to an abrupt stop, only the beefy co-player speaking up loudly in the silence. “Aw, Billy, what the hell? I was winning this one.”

 

The man with the gun didn’t seem to hear him, his eyes boring into every face. His voice was hard. “He’s here. The bloody snoop that’s been plaguing ‘em over at Checkers.”  
  
The beefy player scoffed, “Not a chance…all regulars here, except for these two.” He gestured towards John and the old man. "One’s ancient and other’s a cripple.”

  
The man with the gun narrowed his eyes as he checked out the old man, dismissing him a moment later before his gaze settled on John. His gaze hardened. “YOU, what’s your name?”   
  
Even after a month, the name felt alien on John's lips. “Victor Trevor."

  
It was a weak lie. Even a two-bit thug could sense that. The man’s eyes narrowed.  
  
“How about some I.D., Mr. Trevor?  
  
John's hand wavered. The documents provided by the Witness Protection Program certainly weren't going to do him a lot of good. They were still locked in a strong-box under his bed in Sussex. John gave the man looming over him a cynical glare.

 

"You think I'm going to bring personal effects to a place like this? That'd just be asking for trouble."  
  
“Is that right?” The man sneered. “I think you need to come with us now. Just want to ask you a few questions.”  
  
John pushed off from the table, hand reaching automatically for his cane though for once his leg didn't seem to be troubling him. They thought he wasn’t who he claimed to be, and it was partly true. But somehow, he knew that they had nothing to do with his… _don’t go there, John!  
  
_ He hobbled down between the two men as they silently descended the stairs and he let himself be herded into a dingy back-alley. Curiously, after that initial jolt of excitement, all he could seem to feel now was a dull sort of irritation. Not even enough to stimulate the fight or flight response. The two thugs prodded him round to face the wall and he sighed.

 

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked.

  
They didn’t answer. Billy just motioned him to stand still. “Search him”, he ordered the other guy, who stuffed his gun in his pocket and patted John down from head to toe. John thanked his stars for not having carried his gun for today’s jaunt. The man roughly yanked out his wallet and mobile phone.

  
“HEY!” he gave a token protest and was roughly shoved to his knees. The cane clattered to the ground, disproportionately loud in the dark alley. The ground was damp and his jeans were soaked through in an instant, but after that cursory protest he stayed silent. Overhead, something squeaked.

  
“There’s nothing here.” The man’s voice was disdainful. “Just a tenner and an oyster card.”

  
“So! Victor, is it? You were gambling with ten pounds in your wallet? Very brave of you…”  
  


“I was never in over my head!” John protested weakly.  
  
“You know what I think? I think you weren’t gonna finish the game in the first place. You made your way in to spy on one of our boys and get a sample of his work, coz he’s stupid enough to use it for gambling, isn’t that right, Mr. Holmes?”  
  
John had had enough. He got to his feet, knees protesting. “I told you, my name is Victor. I don’t know who it is you are talking about. I was here just for the game and I would like to have my wallet and my phone back, right now.”  
  


That prompted Billy to point his gun straight at John. “I think people like you need to be taught a lesson. So, I’m gonna try not to kill you…just shoot you enough that you’ll remember not to go meddlin’ in someone else’s business.”

 

John didn’t move. Even as he stood there, he could think of at least two ways to try and overpower the man. Instead he closed his eyes in resignation. He had not planned on dying. But this was a much better alternative than killing himself, or attempting to live his life, or what passed for it now-a-days.

  
Behind his closed eyelids, he finally allowed himself the respite of his memories- the face of a man with crinkled black eyes and the impish smile. The gaze that had made him feel like he was the centre of the universe, the brilliance that had captivated him, that had shown in his smile when John had said Yes… yes forever! Nothing had changed, though everything was different. He was still in love with the lie. It is better to have loved and lost than not to … _what utter bullshit!  
  
_ Suddenly there was a larger clang overhead and John’s eyes snapped open involuntarily…  
…just in time to see a man drop like a stone from the sky on the top of his would-be-assassin’s head.

  
A frantic motion in the periphery of his vision snapped him out of his emotional paralysis. He lunged and tackled the second man to the ground before he could reach for the gun in his pocket. He slammed his attacker's head to the ground, ducking to avoid the weakly thrown punch before pounding his fist into the man's face until his eyes rolled up in his head.  
  
He rolled himself away from the prone figure, lying on the ground and panting heavily as he tried to catch his breath. He heard footsteps coming closer just before a shadow fell across his face.

 

“Are you alright?”

  
John opened his eyes to see the face of his second card-table companion, except that it wasn’t the same man. This man had the hair and skin of a sixty year old, but the voice and bearing of a much younger man. His eyes glittered sharply in the dim light of the alley and the smell of alcohol was barely discernible out in the open. Behind the looming figure, the fire-escape was clearly visible overhead, the point from which the man must have launched himself into the fight.  
  
John could swear that he had no control over his own reactions, as he began to giggle at the absurdness of his unwanted rescue. In response, a smile broke out on the stranger’s face, throwing the false wrinkles in sharp relief. He grabbed John’s hand to haul him upright.

  
“When you get over your hysterics, we need to leave.” There was no rancour in his voice. “Their friends will come looking any moment now. I’m Sherlock Holmes, by the way.”  
  


Mr. Holmes? So, this was the man to be blamed for the mess he was presently in. Though if he was honest it was also the reason John was feeling more alive than he had done in months. Knowing that made is strangely impossible to hate him.

 

Holmes led the way, running through the maze of alleyways, over another fire-escape and two rooftops before they finally stopped to catch their breath.

  
“That…” John panted, “…has to be…the most ridiculous thing… I’ve ever done!”  
  
“And you invaded Afghanistan!” Sherlock countered with a giggle of his own. At John’s sudden frozen expression, his tone became querulous. “Or, was it Iraq?”  
  
But John Watson wasn’t in the alley anymore. It was six months back, and he was at Heathrow airport, watching Murray walk away to take his flight back to Kabul; the last person who mattered to John, going back to make a difference while John was stuck here. He had been sitting for what felt like hours, staring at his cane when someone had taken the chair next to his in the waiting lounge. He had ignored the new-comer, until a confident voice had cut through his reverie, thrusting a fresh paper-cup filled with piping hot tea into his cold hands…  
  


“So, Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
  
John stumbled one more step back from the man in the alley, unseeing in shock. Then he did something he had never done in his life before. He turned around and ran for his life.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was trying to run as noiselessly as possible, ignoring his throbbing ankle, his feet barely making a sound as they pounded the pavement. He missed the protection of his usual coat as the chilly air hit him. Alshe ran lightening calculations in his head as to the likeliest route his quarry must have taken in his mindless flight; in a bid to follow without actually following him.

He hadn’t waited to consider why he was chasing after a man he had barely met; one who definitely didn’t have any information on his current case. The man had laughed after tackling an armed attacker, but had fled on hearing a single reference to his past. There was only one thought driving him forward: Victor Trevor, if that was his real name, was an unsolved enigma.

Sherlock loved those.

Strictly speaking, he could find the man later, at leisure. But there was an off chance that he might need help. That just wouldn't do. Besides, the idiot was fleeing back the way they had come, which was a bit not good.

He rounded a wall towards what he knew to be a dead end, and heard heavy breathing. Trevor had stopped to catch his breath. He approached slowly and halted in his tracks as a new sound reached his ears. The man was crying; sobbing hard, gasping between hitching shudders as if drawing each breath with great difficulty.

Though Sherlock’s feet were barely scraping the ground, Trevor lifted his head as he approached. Sherlock raised both hands, palms up in front of his chest placatingly. 

“You're alright, I'm not going to hurt you-"

The wary look on Trevor’s face abruptly morphed into horror as he opened his mouth to scream a warning.

Before Sherlock could whirl around, something hard collided with the back of his skull, and everything went black.

_Stupid! Stupid!_ John chastised himself. He had been so stupid, running back into danger. Now he had one man down (still hard to not think in military jargon), and a weapon being aimed at him for the second time in an hour. Thankfully, it was neither of the previous two assailants, as this time around they would have been more inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. He raised his hands in surrender, trying to keep his voice both calm and steady as he spoke.

“Look, we're not armed. We didn’t even take any money. We don’t want any trouble. Just let us go…”

“Shut up!” the man ordered. He scrabbled one-handed for his phone, clearly intending to call for help and, with his attention slightly diverted, John took two steps forward.

“Stay back!” the man yelled. Closer up John could see he was actually barely more than a kid, has hands shaking around the weapon, fear growing in his eyes as John took another slow, deliberate step towards him. The next instant, the prone form of Holmes on the ground twisted to swing a long leg out, and the boy tripped. The gun clattered to the ground, and John had him immobilized in less than a minute. He emptied the gun and dropped the bullets along with the mobile in the nearby skip. 

He turned his attention to Holmes, who was now groaning, and trying to sit up unsuccessfully.

“Here, let me. Don’t move for a bit…” He pillowed one hand below the salt and pepper hair, probing gently to check for any bleeding. 

Holmes was babbling, disoriented, his lips only half forming around the words. “…Need to …move…get caught…”

He had a point. In any case, there was little John could make out in the darkened alley, even for a perfunctory examination, except that there was no bleeding. 

“I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt”, he warned. He levered Holmes up to a sitting position, swinging the man's weight completely onto his good shoulder before trying to lift him back on to his feet. To his credit, Holmes attempted to walk, though he seemed to have lost all sense of direction. John was thankful that he hadn’t lost consciousness completely as he was bloody tall and would have been quite impossible to carry. 

Luckily, once out on the road, they came upon a cab that agreed to take them. It was after John had deposited his burden inside that he realized that he had no idea what destination to give. Holmes had collapsed dizzily against a window. John had no choice but to get in and try to rouse the man. “Hey mate, where do you live?”

He could barely hear the mumbled “221B, Baker Street.”

As the cab got underway, John pushed aside fears of how they would pay for it. He hoped Holmes had money, and tried to make himself useful. He tried to check the man's eyes and found his hands being weakly swatted away. 

“Let me check your pupils for concussion, see if you need to go to an A&E," John said. "Don’t worry, I’m a doctor.” It slipped out naturally, in a bid to reassure, only to realize too late that it was too much information.

“M…okay," the man mumbled. “Bit dizzy…”

“Yeah, that would be the concussion.”

“Mild…” His voice was becoming stronger. “No nausea, and my vision is fine…”

_So, experienced with concussion_ , John noted feeling his newly-awakened curiosity rise further. He couldn’t resist stating the obvious. “So, you’re Mr. Holmes. The one they were actually looking for?”

“Call me Sherlock, please…" he said, rubbing his bruised forehead unhappily. I suppose this is the part where I pretend it's a pleasure to have met you and you pretend that you're not annoyed to have met me, and then we sit in awkward silence until you admit that you don't have money for the cab fare and expect for me to pay it all, isn't it?" Sherlock huffed. "Still, at least the evening wasn't a total loss."

John blinked at him in disbelief.  _Who the hell talks like that?_  His curiosity got the better of him. “Who are you? What were you doing back there?”

“I’m a Consulting Detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job.” Even the slight slurring couldn’t mask the pride in his voice.

“What does that exactly involve?”

“I solve interesting crimes that confound the Police.”

“Right!” There was more than a hint of scepticism in John’s voice. “And why is it that you can solve crimes better?”

Sherlock’s head was now leaning back on the head-rest, long neck bared. His eyes were closed. He took a long breath, then spoke rapidly in a low voice. “You’re an Army Doctor, returned to the UK less than a year ago from active combat in…I would still say Afghanistan. You were invalided, so shot. Not in the leg though; the limp is definitely psychosomatic. You got engaged within the last one month, so, new relationship after your return from war. That tells me the break-up was even more recent and traumatic. You are currently hiding from your ex, so you were the one to leave him. You are a battle-scarred soldier, so the possibility of a garden-variety abusive relationship is ruled out. YOU chose to end it, despite your fiercely loyal nature; and you are in hiding, as you fear retribution. That, added to the type of ring on your finger, tells me that your ex-fiancée was a male, probably involved in something illegal or unsavoury, of which you had no prior knowledge until after your engagement. And of course, your real name isn’t Victor Trevor.” 

John was glad that the man had his eyes closed. He was reeling under such a severe attack of déjà-vu that he wondered what expression was showing on his face. Six months back, he would have accused Sherlock of being a mind-reader. Now he knew better. He had thought that his ex had been one of a kind. But apparently it was his lot in life to meet impossible people.

His lack of reaction had prompted Sherlock to raise his head and focus bleary eyes on his face. John found that even now he couldn’t deny him the honest response he deserved.

“That… was brilliant.”

“Really? You don’t sound surprised.”

John smiled wryly. “I told you myself that I was a Doctor. The dog tags, I fiddled with while playing, told you about the army. My posture and fighting skills showed you that the limp is in my head. The cut and polish of the ring, genuine Cartier, newly released, told you about the time of the engagement. Newly engaged men don’t spend their Saturday nights playing illegal poker alone. Plus you saw me crying. So, traumatic break-up. The rest was an educated guess.”

Sherlock’s eyes had widened, and his mouth had fallen open in a comical ‘o’. John stifled a giggle at the expression. 

“Don’t worry, it doesn't make it any less amazing. I know how you saw the things I did, it doesn't mean I know how to do it myself.”

Sherlock pouted, ignoring the compliment. “I never guess!”

“Yes you do…”

_It was the smile_ , Sherlock decided, that suited his face the most. In the next moment he berated himself for the illogical thought. The man was an interesting distraction, nothing more, nothing less. What a fascinating specimen though, with such an ordinary appearance. His present case was solved; all he had to look forward to was the tedium of denying himself the next high. This would break the monotony nicely.

“And my name  _is_  Victor," the man added. "That’s the only thing, you didn’t get right.”

He really was a hopeless liar…

'Victor' was now studying Sherlock’s avid expression with a frown on his face. 

“Right, I think it would be best if I got out at the next set of lights. You’re fine now, and I should be on my way…”

“Nonsense!” Sherlock interjected. “It’s too late to take the train back to Sussex. You don’t have any money for a hotel. You can stay at mine for the night. I have a spare bedroom. It’s the least I can do for getting you into trouble. Well... more trouble.”

He had tried to make his voice as ingratiating as possible, but Victor still looked undecided.

“Come now, Doctor, you wouldn’t leave a partially concussed man unsupervised overnight, would you?”

John could see the Venus-Flytrap, for what it was. 

“It’s very generous of you, Sherlock, but as you so correctly guessed, my company is a bit risky right now. I wouldn’t want to bring the danger to your door-step.”

“Please!” He scoffed. I would like to see anyone try and break into my flat. It is probably the safest place in the city." The comment went unexplained but the look on Victor's face indicated that he somehow knew Sherlock wasn't bluffing.

Still, John dithered. Sherlock appeared to be admirably tenacious, mind-bogglingly intelligent, yet at the same time childishly transparent. The problem was that John no longer had faith in his own assessment. Whatever organ it was that enabled men to trust each other had been cruelly cut out of him. The only positive aspect was that he no longer had anything to lose…

Also, a very large part of the reason why he wanted to accept was purely selfish. Since he had bumped into Sherlock, he had the strangest feeling of having returned back to his own head. After such a long time of feeling nothing it was like there was finally some sun lighting the wasteland of his psyche and suddenly the view didn't seem so bleak.

John shook his head distractedly at the image and then said in his most no-nonsense tone, “I’ll come to your place, on one condition. You’ll not ask me anything about my ex, or try to figure out stuff about him. At all. I’m serious, Sherlock. I neither need nor want your help in the matter. Is that clear?”

Sherlock scowled momentarily, the effect enhanced by the disguise, then brightened as he agreed. “Fine.”

John knew he would probably regret his decision as he echoed, “Fine then…”

The cab sped on towards Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

The cab stopped in front of a nice three storeyed building in Central London with a cafe out front, which was closed at this late hour. John offered to help Sherlock out of the cab but was waved off. John didn’t say a thing. He just waited patiently till Sherlock got out after paying and tottered one step unsteadily before John wordlessly grasped Sherlock's hand and hauled his arm over one shoulder as before.

  
“I’m fine," Sherlock snarled.

  
John replied in a deadpan voice. “Sprained ankle from your first-storey dive, which you ignored and used for running. For a genius, you suck at common sense.” Sherlock looked like he wanted to retort back, but all his breath was being used up to keep himself from visibly wincing at each step.

  
John managed to get the main door open using Sherlock’s key and get Sherlock halfway up the narrow flight of stairs before there was the sound of a door opening from above followed by someone rushing out to the landing.

  
Unfortunately, it had to be the second-to-last man in London that John had wanted to run into tonight. The stairs were partly in shadow, so John doubted his face was visible, but as soon as the man saw them he hurried down the last couple of steps and hauled Sherlock's other arm over his own shoulder, lightening John’s burden considerably.

  
“What happened?” Lestrade’s voice was fondly exasperated.

 

“I solved your case for you, as usual.” Sherlock's voice was laced with pain, yet he still somehow managed to sound imperious.

  
“And it didn’t occur to you that you might need help?”

  
“THIS…” he winced painfully, “…had nothing to do with the case. I was perfectly safe.”

 

By this time they had reached the landing and the light spilling from the room beyond was clearly illuminating John’s face. But Lestrade didn’t notice till Sherlock was safely deposited on the sofa and he turned to John, hand outstretched, in all likelihood to thank him.

 

When his eyes fell on John, all geniality drained from his face and his lips were drawn into a thin line. Admirably, he didn’t utter a single word, other than to casually turn to Sherlock and ask, “Who’s this?”  
  


Sherlock had missed the previous gesture, as Lestrade’s back had been turned to him. “This is my friend…” both John and Lestrade did a double take at these words. “…Victor Trevor. Victor, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

 

“Friend?” Lestrade’s eyes narrowed.  
  
“Acquaintance…” John corrected hurriedly. “We just met.”  
  
“I see." Lestrade’s face was still pensive.  
  
Sherlock’s voice was cutting. “All _you_ need to see, Lestrade, is the evidence.” He dug into his wallet and pulled out a fifty pound note. “Got it off Jeremiah Wilson in a friendly game of poker. The paper is the same that was stolen last month, but the note is definitely counterfeit. You will find the press in the cellar below Checkers. The cellar dates back to World War I and is not on any plans. I don’t think you should delay the arrests. They have an inkling that I’m close…but are unlikely to bin the operation on a hunch. They didn’t actually catch me today either. This definitely has nothing to do with HIM, as I previously thought. Overall it's a shoddy affair…”  
  
“We can discuss the details later," Lestrade interrupted, eyes still on John. Sherlock noticed.  
  
“Victor…” Sherlock’s voice was sharp. “If you want tea you can help yourself. There’s no milk, so you’ll have to take it black. Kitchen’s that way. You’ll find everything you need in the overhead cupboard with the black door.”  
  
John was too relieved at having an opportunity to escape Lestrade’s accusing stare to feel offended at being practically ordered to make tea. He fled to the kitchen where all he could do was stand and stare for the first two minutes. The dining table could have been a reproduction of a mad scientist’s lab. There was a top-notch microscope, beakers, Erlenmeyer flasks filled with various coloured liquids and a retort filled with what suspiciously looked like blood at the centre of the mess.  
  


Even a five minute conversation with Sherlock had given John a clue that he wasn’t completely normal. The appearance of the kitchen was just another piece falling into place. That John found the man’s obvious insanity and lack of pretence at hiding it to be soothing he suspected spoke more about his own mental state than Sherlock’s. John found a visually unblemished kettle and tea leaves, and busied himself with the familiar task.  
  
By the time John made his way out again, Lestrade was gone and Sherlock was attempting to hop his way towards what must be the bathroom.  
  
“Um, tea," John offered.  
  
Sherlock frowned. “That was just to get you out of the room. Lestrade seemed to be unduly interested in you.”  
  


“You thought so?” John said, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock huffed, glaring in annoyance when John shot out a hand to stop him leaving.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?" John asked. "Stay put and have your tea. Let me take a look at that ankle, then I’ll help you to the bathroom." At Sherlock's look of irritated dismay John shook his head. "No no, don’t give me that look. You’re not wasting a perfectly good cup of tea. Army doctor, remember? I’ve seen more stubborn sods than you.”  
  
Sherlock had a very odd expression on his face as he sat back on the sofa, but accepted his cup of tea without protest.  
  
John knelt in front of the sofa and gently took the swollen left foot in his hands, carefully flexing and extending it, judging the extent of damage. When he was done, he looked up to see Sherlock looking down at him with eyes that seemed too large for his face. That had John self-consciously clearing his throat before saying confidently, “It’s just sprained. If you have bandages, I can bind it up for you later. You should keep your weight off it for a couple of days and you’ll be fine.”  
  
“Thank you, doctor." the voice was uncharacteristically gentle.

 

True to his word, John assisted him to the bath and left him there to clean up. Back alone in the living room, he finally dared to check his phone and found eleven missed calls, all from Lestrade.

  
Hearing the sound of the shower start, John decided to get it over with. He had had no desire to antagonise Lestrade. The Inspector had been his only ally at the Yard and one of the few people who hadn’t immediately slotted him into the ex-accomplice turned now-running-for-his-life category. Lestrade had ensured for him the best protection he could offer, short of actually taking him into custody.  
  
John remembered how incredulous Sergeant Donovan’s voice had been in the interrogation room. “You expect us to believe that you had no idea that the man you were sleeping with for the last six months was a psychopathic bomber?”  
  
Even John had known how far-fetched his story had sounded, but Lestrade had believed him.  
  
Of course this little adventure did look a little as if John had thrown that goodwill and gratitude back in Lestrade's face…  
  
John ducked out into the hall just to be on the safe side. Though Sherlock was shut in the bathroom he didn't want to be overheard. Still faintly marvelling at the absence of his limp, John dialled Lestrade.  
  
“What the fuck are you doing, John?" Lestrade snapped. "No…most importantly, what are you doing _in London_ with Sherlock bloody Holmes?”  
  
“Detective Inspector, I …”  
  
“You are the Yard’s responsibility, John. That makes you my responsibility. I cannot guarantee your safety if you do this. Maybe you don’t realise the kind of danger you're in."

 

Lestrade took a deep breath, obviously trying to calm his temper. "Look, I know you don't want to think badly of your fiancé. I know it's hard, But you have to accept that he has killed people, John. I've lost four good officers already. Civilians have died because of the things he has done and you are the last, best chance that we have of catching him. If you go running off, how many more lives do you think are going to be at risk?"  
  
John didn't reply, head dropping in shame. Not only did he not have a reasonable explanation for his actions, but he knew Lestrade was right.  
  
“Please tell me you've at least left Baker Street. It's probably the worst possible place you could be right now. Of all the people… Jesus, you find Sherlock Holmes to come home with." Lestrade sighed. "Stay away from him. If you are still there, make any excuse and leave. If you don’t, you might as well be distributing fliers with your name on it. It may already be too late, but leave anyway. Get to the Yard, if you have nowhere else to go…”  
  
John snapped. He was tired…tired of this wraith-like existence, tired of trying to simulate a fear he did not feel. Oh he was damaged alright; full of self-loathing, disgust and betrayal. But fear simply wasn’t a part of the picture. He had taken whatever paltry information he had found to the authorities, not because he feared for his life, but because he recognised that he wasn’t the only victim. He hadn't much cared what happened to himself, but there were people who had been hurt far worse, and his conscience wouldn't let him deny them proper justice.  
  
He wasn't quite sure what insinuation Lestrade was making; all he had grasped from the tirade was that being around Sherlock was insanely dangerous in more ways than one, but God help him, he craved it like oxygen right now.  
  
“I’m very sorry, Inspector, but I had to do this. I will speak to you in the morning.” John offered in the most contrite voice he could muster though he suspected Lestrade wouldn't believe it for a moment. Regardless, he cut the call and shut off the phone. He knew that coming morning, there would be hell to pay. For some unknown reason, he felt it was worth it.

 

In the bathroom, Sherlock was standing below the shower, keeping his weight off the injured foot as he let his forehead touch the cool tile. The hot water felt good running down his back. Transport…It’s just transport, he reminded himself. Despite that, his heart thudded painfully against his ribs, as if it was somehow trying to escape.  
  
This was not happening. _He was a sociopath…_ he didn’t do feelings, or emotions, or people full stop! It was a bitter lesson that he had learned early on during his Uni years. People had never been able to just ignore him. But his complete lack of empathy had only inspired emotions like fear, distrust and hatred; at the very best, a grudging respect from someone like Lestrade. He had built up firewalls so that his intellect was free for access, while everything else was deemed unnecessary, and buried deep within his hard drive. He felt the safest within his virtual bubble, where people like Lestrade’s team didn’t matter; their words became white noise before they could reach him. If this meant that he could never be truly happy, it had also meant that he could not be hurt.  
  
That had seemed to be enough, before.  
  
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, willing his heart to slow down. It ignored him in favour of fluttering at the thought of the first person ever who had genuinely cared with no ulterior motives. Victor had displayed the kind of altruism Sherlock had always scoffed at before. Maybe it had been the hands, he mused. The hands that had brought down an armed man; a soldier’s hands with a doctor’s touch. He hadn’t expected them to be so infinitely gentle. He had called Sherlock brilliant, with no sarcasm, with no expectation of favour, but as a simple statement of fact. The man looked broken, yet undefeated, and at the same time constantly tense, on edge, like a grenade with the pin removed. There was something dangerous about him.  
  
Sherlock shuddered against the now-cold water. He hated Victor Trevor, hated him for reminding Sherlock, how painfully human he could still be.

 

***

 

 

_Elsewhere in the city_

 

Sebastian Moran was not pleased. He was fucking good at his job. This wasn’t optional; as the last man who had been in his place and made a mistake had been roasted alive in an electric crematorium (drowning someone in the Thames was too pedestrian for the Boss).  
  
He wasn’t complaining; he loved the job. But on days like this, he wished he was bloody clairvoyant just so that he could prepare for Jim’s reaction.  
  
He paused before the Control Room. There had been strict instructions left that HE was not to be disturbed for the next two hours. There'd been some big overseas client with a request to hack into NORAD. It was Christmas as far as Jim was concerned. But Moran knew he was making the right call as he opened the door and stepped in. If not, well, burning to a crisp within seconds was better than drowning at least.  
  
Three oversized screens dominated the room, the area kept freezing cold for the sake of the Cray that stood off to one side. Moran shivered as Jim’s reptilian gaze settled on him, unblinking. He offered no explanations, just walked up to the desk and flung down the photographs face up. The pictures had time-stamps. He didn’t have to say a word.  
  
Jim examined each of the five prints, gentle fingers caressing the face of the other man. Moran didn’t even know his name, except that he was some freakish pet project that had lasted six long months.  
  
Others in the organisation hadn’t even know that much. He had known better than to comment on Jim’s frequent disappearances, their reduced workload, or the sudden appearance of what looked like a RING on his Boss’s finger. Jim’s obsession with Sherlock Holmes and their cat and mouse games he understood very well, but anything to do with the unknown stranger was always faintly unsettling.  
  
Just as he was about to heave a sigh of relief, Jim began to laugh. Moran winced. The last time he had laughed like this was while playing that insane game with Holmes, and in the end had almost gotten himself blown up in a pool.  
  
Jim stopped, blinking tears out of his eyes.

 

“Much better outcome than I anticipated," he smiled. "Do nothing. Just regular updates.” He smiled again, and this time the shiver that ran down Moran’s spine had nothing to do with the cold. “The pieces are in place. The game will be much more fun, this time around.”


	4. Chapter 4

John sank on one of the chairs in front of the fireplace, like he never wanted to get up. His thoughts were a maelstrom, with guilt now added to the howling mix. Layered over all of it was the certainty that, unlike a couple of hours ago, right now it felt good to be alive.

That was when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom and all of John’s thoughts flew out of the proverbial window.

The man had literally shed his skin. Gone were the thinning salt and pepper hair (a wig), the slightly crooked nose (false), the beard (also false), the dirty brown eyes (contacts) and the tweed overcoat.

The man standing in front of him now was so gorgeous as to look (to a Tolkien fan like him) elvish. He was pale; the kind of severe paleness that would make other people look pasty-faced just made his skin look illuminated from within. Those lips would make any woman jealous. He had a head of thick, curly black hair, the tips of which were glistening with residual droplets of water, dark strands framing high, aristocratic cheekbones. And those eyes…oh god those eyes! Like a stormy sea, like semi-precious stones, like lasers. He was wearing simple nightclothes over which a blue silk dressing gown was casually unfastened. Sherlock looked; there was no other word for it, beautiful.

A full minute went by before John realised he was openly staring, which was followed by the disconcerting observation that Sherlock was staring right back. John looked away first, clearing his throat to find his voice. “You look… different.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and just like that the spell broke. “Thank you for stating the obvious, Victor. I was undercover. In disguise.” 

John smiled easily at the disparaging remark. “Good job with the disguise then. Hard to imagine _this_ …” he said, gesturing towards all of him, “…under all of that.”

Sherlock made no comment other than to limp to the sofa and flop dramatically down on it like a stringless puppet. As John made his way to the now-empty bathroom he wondered why he found the dramatics endearing as opposed to irritating. He didn’t dwell on it, washing up as well as he could before emerging to reclaim his chair.

Sherlock was still curled up on the sofa, eyes closed, fingers steepled together below his chin, like in prayer. He kept his eyes closed as he spoke. “If you wish to sleep, the spare bedroom’s upstairs.”

John considered. This was likely to be the only time he would really get to spend with the enigmatic World’s Only Consulting Detective. Lestrade would probably ship him off to Siberia the next day, given his reaction on the phone.

“What about you?” He realised how that sounded, after the words had left his mouth.

The unearthly eyes snapped open and Sherlock twisted to regard John, who found his gaze uncertain for the first time. It didn’t suit him. 

“Victor…” Sherlock began seriously. “I must tell you that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest…”

“No!” John interrupted with a wince. John was smart enough to know that elvish look-alikes were way above his league. “No… no…I’m not asking… I just wanted to know if you intend to sleep.” 

His face relaxed. “Oh. Sleeping is boring”, he drawled, before turning his head back to peruse the ceiling.

“So…if you too aren’t in the mood for a kip," John suggested, "Mind telling me about the case? If you can, that is. It sounds interesting.”

Sherlock snorted. “Hardly! One round of surveillance and one evening in disguise to crack a counterfeiting case is _pathetic_ ; a bunch of witless thugs out to make a quick penny. Not worth my time. I was mistaken in taking it up in the first place.”

“Alright then, how about some other case?”

This made Sherlock sit up abruptly and gaze at John with undisguised fascination. “You really ARE interested- in the cases.” 

John flashed him an envious smile. “It’s just…” he gestured towards the kitchen and the skull and the mantelpiece with its clippings. “…Your life seems interesting. Much more than mine, anyway." He sighed. "You know what, never mind. You can’t probably talk about it to a stranger. I should just go sleep…”

Before he had blinked his eyes, Sherlock had walked- literally walked- over the table and in two graceful strides was dropping into the chair opposite John. “They are  ** _my_**  cases. You will find that I can talk about them, if I so wish. Let’s see… I think you will like the case of the Norwood builder…”

So he started. It was like a valve being loosened or a crack in a dam… a frail genius, which never had an audience before. When Sherlock talked about The Work, his observations and his deductions, he was scintillating. It was certainly not due to the style of his narrative though, which was cut and dry and practically mathematical. He seemed to loathe embellishing even the slightest. But the facts were so fantastic and bizarre in places that John marvelled as the case unfolded to become an adventure.

“So you asked them to stand in the empty kitchen and yell ‘fire’?”

Sherlock’s smile was positively evil. “I ordered them! Especially Sally Donovan; it put those dulcet tones to good use.”

“And he ran out of the hidden panic room…just like that?”

“Well…he did think that he was going to get roasted alive. All he was wearing were his boxers and a pair of socks. You should have seen Lestrade’s face!”

And just like that, they were both laughing again. Then there was the next case …and the case after that. Sherlock talked animatedly, sometimes getting up to pace impatiently when John didn’t get something as soon as he said it. Once, in-between stories, they retired to the lab-cum-kitchen where John made tea again as Sherlock demonstrated a new method he had discovered of recognizing really old bloodstains (one that thankfully explained the blood in the retort.)

John found himself bitterly wishing for the first time that John Watson didn’t exist and Victor Trevor was actually real. As a pink dawn lighted the windows to 221B, all he knew was that he had never felt so much at home at any point in his life.

He didn’t admit to himself that it was a hell of a lot similar to falling in love.

Sherlock was speaking animatedly about the reasons for keeping frozen toes in the ice-cube trays, when he saw Victor’s eyes wander to the windows. The look in his eyes became strangely distant, as if haunted by such a visceral pain that Sherlock momentarily lost the thread of what he had been saying. His own breath hitched in response, but Victor wasn’t looking at him. All he said was, “Look, its morning already…”

The tone of his voice told Sherlock everything that the words themselves hadn't. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself kneeling in front of Victor’s chair, one hand placed on each chair-arm as if to lock him in, yet all without touching him. No… Sherlock would not lose a battle like that with his self-control. He would not permit himself to breach that barrier…

“What is it?" Sherlock asked. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "It's your ex-fiancé, isn’t it?" When Victor didn't reply he felt frustration and the faint edge of alarm start to rise up inside him. "Tell me," he demanded. "What are you so afraid of? If you actually told me what was wrong; I might be able to help you."  

Victor looked at him a little helplessly, as if somehow still uncertain that Sherlock was even real. Worry had etched deep lines across his forehead, expressive blue eyes clouded with regret so intense that Sherlock felt his own stomach fall.

Victor reached out to cup his cheek, fingers warm and gentle and just like that, Sherlock was lost.

All the barriers he had maintained melted away like so much wax in the heat of that touch. This wasn’t his first kiss, but never before had he been swamped with so much desire, so much longing, too much to process. At first he only felt a press of lips to his own, but Victor didn’t draw away. In the next moment, his lips moved in tandem and the kiss deepened. There was so much need on both sides and so much yearning that Sherlock felt like he was drowning and being saved at the same time. He could not comprehend how something like that could feel so glorious!

It was Victor who broke away first and Sherlock saw the desperation that couldn’t be held back anymore and the joy that couldn’t be masked by it. 

“Sherlock, I wish…” John paused. Unable to meet Sherlock's gaze, his eyes drifted across the wall behind as if seeking to anchor himself.

He froze.

"Victor?" Sherlock asked.

When he looked back at Sherlock, Victor's face was cool and unreadable. Gone was the man who had kissed him not a moment ago, the warmth suddenly replaced with something distant and implacable. He straightened in his chair and cleared his throat meaningfully. “Sorry, got carried away. It's been a long time and all that…”

Before Sherlock could begin to argue, could even say a word, Victor added, “Could you make us some tea? I believe it’s your turn now.”

Sherlock blinked at him in confusion, lips flattening into a grim line as Victor stared down at him. Uncertain of what to say, or what had precipitated the sudden change of mood, Sherlock hesitated a long moment before finally obeying. Reluctance to let the matter go was clear in his every movement and John breathed a faint sigh of relief as Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen.

As soon as Sherlock was gone, John stood up and walked closer to the wall above the mantelpiece. His eyes had strayed there accidentally while trying to convince himself that telling his secret to Sherlock was the right thing to do. It was a wall on which there was a large map with dozens of post-its and crime-scene photographs tacked to it; one which he had spared only a passing glance earlier.

John closed his eyes for a moment, before opening them to make sure what he was seeing was real.

Tacked to a corner of the board, on a small piece of paper, written in an eerily familiar hand was his ex-fiancé’s mobile number.


	5. Chapter 5

104… His heart-rate was 104. It did not seem to realise that all John was doing was standing in front of a wall. _There_ , Lestrade would be happy now. As of this moment, John was feeling nothing but a swooping terror in the pit of his stomach.

 

Sherlock was after Jim. Of course, he was after Jim; he is the world’s only Consulting Detective. John was just too thick to have caught on earlier. There was a sort of inevitability to it; a sort of sick symmetry.  _If not Sherlock, then who? And Of course, Jim!_  Lestrade had been right. This was so fucked up. What had he been thinking? Why the hell was his heart still racing? Who was he really afraid for?

 

John heard footsteps behind him and carefully wiped all expression from his face, before turning to face Sherlock. He usually didn’t have masochistic tendencies, but he had to know.

 

Sherlock still looked pensive and achingly beautiful as he passed John his mug. “Victor, about-”

 

John interrupted, before it could become too awkward. “Sherlock, do we really need to talk about it? It was just a kiss. I…I’m in a particularly bad place right now, and wasn’t thinking clearly. It’s been a long time since anyone’s given a damn about me and, you did…so I kissed you back. It doesn’t have to mean anything, right?”

 

 _WRONG!_  Sherlock wanted to scream. But years of well-honed defence mechanisms kicked in automatically. He was Sherlock Holmes. It had been a momentary weakness, nothing more. It had meant nothing to Victor.  _SO SHUT UP_ , his brain commanded. Sherlock locked his jaws into smiling tightly back. “Of course, it doesn’t have to mean anything, Victor. I apologise if I came on too strongly.”

 

They sipped their tea in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts until John finally broke the silence. “What’s that case, you have up on the wall?”

 

Sherlock looked up at the wall distractedly and gave a wry grin. “That, Victor, is the puzzle of a lifetime. The case which, when solved, will be my crowning glory; and I wouldn’t be remiss in describing it as the work of a serious and powerful admirer.”

 

“An admirer?”

 

“A man who calls himself a consultant criminal. Brilliant actually!”

 

_‘I’m an international Consultant, John, with a lot of demand. But I like working freelance. It allows me the space to be innovative. Individuals, Companies…anyone with interesting problems can hire me. I know it doesn’t sound terribly interesting to a soldier like you, but it’s pretty exciting!’_

 

John shook his head to clear it. “You’ve met this man? Seen him?”

 

Sherlock looked disturbingly nostalgic. “Yes, twice… the last time was nearly half a year ago. You must have read about the two random London bombings at the time. One of which was right across the road. All his work, just to get my attention. After that, he disappeared. Lying low for the time being, probably planning his next elegant endeavour.”

 

He took a deep breath as if reliving the time. “But he’ll be back. I don’t know how to describe him, Victor. The best way would be to call him the ‘Perfect Opponent’, if there’s any such thing. With him and his games around, I’m never bored.”

 

John realised that he was shaking. The longing in Sherlock’s voice felt too much like a betrayal; too close on the heels of the first.

 

“People died…in that bombing. Do you care about it at all?”

 

Sherlock seemed to come back to the room on hearing his voice. There was a puzzled frown on his face, as if he had a problem comprehending the question. “No, I don’t. Not caring about them helped me prevent four more explosions. It’s a handicap, I can certainly live without.”

 

 _Mistaken… again!_  John's mind whispered. He had been about to vent his soul to this man, not ten minutes ago.

 

“Besides”, Sherlock was still speaking. “…I would be closer to catching him, if Lestrade would allow me access to the star witness he’s so worried about. But he constantly refuses.”

 

John found that his mouth was suddenly dry. “Star witness?” He croaked.

 

It was not Lestrade but John who had refused to talk to, or have contact with, any outsider. He'd spoken to no one apart from the Detective Inspector’s immediate team. He had had his own survival to think about. Now that he thought about it, he vaguely remembered Lestrade mentioning a specialist… but he had been so distraught at the time it had barely registered.

 

“That’s what Lestrade  _thinks_  he’s got.” Sherlock’s agitation was palpable. “He’s grossly mistaken, but in order to prove that, I need to speak to the man.  ** _I_**  need to question him! But Lestrade’s an overprotective fool, who believes every fairy-tale spun to him.”

 

“Fairy-tale?” John was incredibly grateful, that his one-word responses were sufficient at the moment.

 

“Isn’t it evident? The man worked for a mastermind. He can’t be trusted!”

 

“Worked for?” John sputtered. “Is that what they told you?”

 

“They didn’t tell me anything. It’s transparent. He’s running for his life! I know they are worried about his safety, and it’s logical. But in this case, believing his every word is the demonstration of the highest form of stupidity.”

 

“How so?”

 

“The witness is obviously a plant! Why do you think he’s still alive? He’s either been trained and cut loose for misdirection, or subjected to intentional data exposure and allowed to run. He’s a pawn. Everything that he thinks he knows, all the information he has, is definitely either useless or harmful. He’s just using this man to play us. I, on the other hand, would know exactly what questions to ask. But the witness has Lestrade eating out of the palm of his hand!”

 

John was afraid to speak for the fear of the words that would leave his mouth, but he had to say it. “You already consider him an accomplice yet you haven’t even met him?”

 

Sherlock smirked. “I have met our Consulting Criminal. That’s enough! He wouldn’t make the mistake of trusting someone, let them run and still allow them to live… the man could be accused of any number of crimes, but he’s not an idiot.”

 

John’s head was swimming. It had been the half-year anniversary of their accidental airport meeting when Jim had proposed. When they had reached home- their home - they had kissed. They had both been more than a little drunk, high on the euphoria of being engaged. Jim’s hands had been all over him, as they had entered the house, breathless and exhilarated, ready to tear each other’s clothes off…

 

Then, there was the phone-call, and Jim had to leave. The laptop had just been sitting there on the desk, opened to his soon-to-be husband’s email-id. Mistake! Coincidence!

 

_HE’S A PAWN!_

 

John sat up abruptly. “I have to go.”

 

“What?” Sherlock was scrambling off his sofa. “What happened?”

 

“Nothing,” John managed. "It's nothing. I..." After making a show of checking his watch, John forced his eyes to stay on Sherlock’s face, committing the ethereal features to memory. Victor Trevor had kissed this man, not knowing that John Watson was already loathed and distrusted by him; not even given the benefit of doubt. And he still couldn’t bring himself to regret any of it. Sherlock Holmes had been the best encounter of his life. How could he regret something like that?

 

“I just remembered there's somewhere I'm supposed to be, that’s all. Do you have a card or something? In case I change my mind about asking for your help in the future?”  _(That’s right, John. Keep it professional.)_

 

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, eyebrows drawing together as his expression shifted into one of vague suspicion.

 

“I have a website, called ‘The Science of Deduction’." he said. "My number’s on it.”

 

John held out his hand. “It was… different, meeting you, Sherlock. I’m glad I got a chance to know you, whatever happens.”

 

Sherlock was still mulling over this statement, as the front door shut behind Trevor.

  
  


John had already decided what he had to do during the train-ride back to Sussex. Jim had played him and he had behaved exactly as had been expected of him, by taking the ‘evidence’ to the police. Best case scenario was that his information would turn out to be useless, and he wouldn’t be eligible for protection any longer. Considering Jim, the worst case scenario was more likely, where the data would lead the investigating team into a pre-planned trap and the authorities, who were already on the fence about his complicity in Jim’s crimes, wouldn’t hesitate to lock him up and throw away the key. 

As soon as John reached his bed-sit, he started packing, a process which took all of five minutes. When all his worldly possessions had been transferred to a back-pack, he dialled Lestrade. 

 

“Before you say anything, this is important," John snapped. "You need to listen to me. There’s something wrong with the information I gave you. You need to show it to Sherlock.  He’ll figure it out.”

 

“What!” Lestrade’s voice had a tinge of desperation. “What happened? Everything’s set to go for tomorrow. The cryptographers have deciphered the location of his bloody control room. The warrants are coming through right now. What the hell did you tell Sherlock?”

 

John took a deep breath. “Listen to me, Lestrade. You have to scrap the whole thing. The place is probably booby-trapped. May even be another bomb. Take the data to Sherlock!”

 

“But…”

 

“And do me a favour. Sherlock thinks that if he could have interrogated me, he could have recovered more information. Just…tell him that was impossible. I never knew the real Jim Moriarty. Hell, I never even had a photograph taken with the man. Just, don’t keep Sherlock out of this investigation. You can’t do it without him; take my word for it!”

 

“Where the hell are you, John?”

 

“…And Lestrade, I know that the program is meant for witnesses. My information’s useless, so I don’t deserve protection. I understand all that; it’s not your fault. I’m on my own now. I won’t come to you for help again. I’m sorry, Lestrade…Sorry for everything.”

 

“JOHN!”

 

John cut the call just like the night before, then shut off the phone and left it on the bed. He left the bedsit without looking back.

  
  


Back in Baker Street, Sherlock hadn’t moved from the sofa since John had left. Mrs. Hudson would call it moping, but he found that he was unable to do anything except run the previous night over and over again inside his head. He told himself that it was an essential process. Eventually he would get bored and then he could delete it. But unfortunately, even after multiple reruns, boredom was the last thing he was feeling.

 

_So you’re Mr. Holmes…That’s brilliant!...You---look different!...You’re amazing!...skip…skip… I’m glad I got a chance to know you, whatever happens…_

 

He skipped over the kiss, because he found that when he thought about it, his mind went blissfully blank for an interminable amount of time in an endorphin rush of the kind that even cocaine had been incapable of producing.

 

He was rudely interrupted from his reverie by a frantic ringing at the front door. He heard Mrs Hudson answer it, followed by footsteps running up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Lestrade!  _Good!_  A murder would be a welcome distraction right about now. 

 

“Slow down, Lestrade," he drawled as the D.I. burst in through the door. When he got a good look at Lestrade’s face, however, he sat up in surprise. The last time he had seen an expression like that was years ago, when Sherlock had dared to turn up at a crime-scene drugged to the gills.

 

“Lestrade? What-”

 

“What did you say to Trevor, Sherlock? What did you possibly say, that convinced him to go suicidal on my watch?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “So you  _did_  know him…I knew it! The way-”

 

“SHUT THE HELL UP!” Lestrade flung a flash drive into Sherlock’s lap, who sat stunned at the D.I.’s uncharacteristic outburst. “Here’s the new data from the Moriarty case.”

 

“I already told you; the data’s useless. I want access to the witness.”

 

“Then good luck finding him. After all, you drove him away!”

 

Sherlock paled as he joined the dots. His voice was a whisper at the realisation. “Victor was Moriarty’s man…”

 

“His real name is John Watson, and he was Moriarty’s fiancé.”

 

Sherlock had gripped the armrests of his chair to stop his hands from trembling, as he momentarily felt his vision blur. The traumatic break-up, the ex-fiancé whose unsavoury occupation he had so-cleverly deduced…Victor reaching out…Victor kissing him, about to tell him everything, when he had abruptly stopped. Why did he stop? Ah, yes…eyes on the board, on Jim’s mobile phone number in his own hand-writing… _He’s an admirer…He’s a pawn_ , a scoundrel or a fool… _Oh dear Lord!_   _What had he done?_

 

Sherlock shot to his feet abruptly, startling Lestrade. “Where is he?”

 

Lestrade’s anger had dissolved into confusion at Sherlock’s behaviour. “Jesus! Sherlock, you’re as white as a sheet. Maybe you should-" at Sherlock's withering glance he faltered. "OKAY, Fine…We provided him a bed-sit in Sussex. By the time I got someone to check it out, he was long gone. He ran. Called to tell me to get the data to you. Here…listen to it yourself; I recorded the call. It’s standard procedure…”

 

Sherlock heard on the speaker-phone as John spoke.  _‘You can’t do it without him; take my word for it!’_

 

He closed his eyes, involuntarily.

 

Lestrade was speaking as Sherlock forced himself to listen to the call again. “He won’t last a week with Moriarty on his heels. Of all the stupid things…”

 

“Why does he call Moriarty, Jim? Why does Victor…”

 

“John,” Lestrade corrected automatically.

 

“YES… Why does he call him Jim?”

 

“Because…that’s his name? That’s how he’s referred to him since the beginning.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “John knew him by his full name?”

 

“As far as we know. Why? Is it significant?”

 

“THINK, Lestrade… He could have been anyone. Why didn’t he use an alias?”

 

“What does it mean?”

 

Sherlock was already dialling his brother’s number. “It means John is in even greater danger than you previously thought! It could already be too late!”

 

Lestrade left soon after with instructions to follow up with all of John’s known relatives and contacts, to find out if he had reached out to anyone for help. Sherlock doubted the possibility of that happening. Victor- no, John- would never endanger anyone like that. Mycroft’s minions were pulling up relevant CCTV footage but it was slow work.

 

On the top of everything, Sherlock simply couldn’t silence a part of his mind which seemed to have developed a life of its own.  _The kiss had been real, then? It had meant something? Or John wouldn’t have withdrawn like that! Did he hate Sherlock now? And how did Sherlock feel about John being Moriarty’s ex? Did he feel any different in the light of this new information?_

 

SHUT UP! Sherlock told his head, refocusing on the data being sent by his brother’s assistants. Less than ten minutes after Lestrade’s departure, a familiar tinny sound rang through the flat.

 

The pink phone. 

 

A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck as he fished the iphone out of its drawer. There was a single message from a blocked number.

 

LOST AND FOUND

ONE SECOND-HAND EX-ARMY DOCTOR.

ADDRESS: BLACK TRAMWAY, 12.00 a.m. TONIGHT.

AND DARLING, DO COME ALONE! ;)

 

There was no photograph accompanying the message. It was an obvious trap with Victor -John- as the bait. It would be foolish to comply, and Sherlock Holmes was not a fool…

 

_I’m glad that I got a chance to know you…whatever happens!_

 

He never really had much of a choice.  
  
  
  
 _To be continued..._


	6. Chapter 6

 

Kitty was only seventeen years old, but she had had been living on the streets since she was fifteen, choosing a life outside over living with an abusive stepfather. She knew that she was one of the very few who did not have a drug habit or an alcohol addiction. She was homeless, not stupid.

 

She was sitting at her usual spot in Regent’s Park when she saw Mr. Holmes striding up to her bench. He sat down on the far side, away from her, wrapping his coat around himself and ignoring her completely.  After a couple of minutes, he got up and walked away again.

 

Kitty was intelligent enough to grasp that they were being watched and waited a full half hour before slipping over to his side of the bench. Tucked into the tiny space between the bench and the wall was a small black drawstring pouch. Kitty quietly pocketed the pouch and left.

 

 

***

 

 

John had hitchhiked his way to London, eschewing all modes of public transport. He had a single thought in his head; to leave the country. He knew that it wouldn’t put him out of Jim’s reach but his options were limited. He had to go back to London one last time to meet a man; an old army acquaintance who could sneak him onto a cargo ship illegally. It was late evening by the time he ducked into a roadside diner, only to find himself ignoring his cup of tea as he stared at a telephone box across the road.

 

He had to let Harry know that he was leaving. He hadn’t been much of a brother since he had left for Afghanistan, but she had always managed to keep in touch. He would probably never see her again. The last time he had spoken to her was when he had been blissfully happy in a relationship. He hadn’t told her about Jim as he had had no desire to flaunt his successful fairy-tale relationship in the face of her recently failed marriage. She had no clue about the recent developments in his life either. The least he owed her was a last goodbye.

 

He left the cafe and crossed the road, shutting himself in the phone box to call her, determined to keep the conversation as short as possible.

 

All his plans flew out of the window as her mobile phone was answered on the second ring. “Hellooo Johnny dearest, long time, no see!”

 

John barely kept from gasping audibly as the voice crawled out of his end of the line like something alive trying to wrap around his throat. He held on stiffly to the inside of the phone box to stay upright. “Jim…” he exhaled.

 

“So glad to hear that I haven’t been forgotten. After all I’m talking with my fiancé after nearly a month.” The voice went from oily to an acid sizzle. “You shouldn’t have, Johnny. Everything was set perfectly, just  waiting for the Met. You reeeally shouldn’t have warned them.”

 

John could feel the panic flowing through his veins slowly being replaced by a boiling fury. “Jim, if you have hurt Harry…”

 

“Oh please!” Jim protested, the warm Irish lilt back. “That would be too predictable. Your sister’s fine. Well, she did get mugged this morning and her phone somehow found its way to me but I have no interest in Harriet Watson. Though if you cut this call prematurely, that would most certainly change.”

 

Jim had no reason to lie.  But then… “Why?”

 

“Oh Honey! Just wanted to hear your voice,” Jim blubbered, before he burst out laughing. Each peal of laughter was a sharp reminder of how John had loved making him laugh. Right now, all he felt was a sick feeling coiling in his belly.

 

“Not that you missed me as much, did you Johnny? You were so busy, busy, busy…ratting me out to the Yard, going into hiding, illegal gambling for entertainment and, last but not the least, making Sherlock Holmes fall hard and fast for you. All of this with me waiting for you at home, you naughty boy!”

 

The ringing in John’s ears turned into a full on roar. He could hear the insinuation in Jim’s voice.

 

“What does Sherlock have to do with anything?”

 

Jim’s voice was gleeful. “Oh, is it Sherlock already? That’s nice.”

 

“What do you want, Jim? You already know where I am. Killing me would be too easy. So why all the drama?”

 

“You wound me! I’m only looking out for you in the big, bad world. Since I’m such a nice guy I have, how shall we put it, arranged a date for you with our favourite Detective.”

 

John’s blood ran cold. He managed to keep his voice from shaking. “Not interested.”

 

He could hear the pout in Jim’s voice, “Too bad. Because he certainly is! It was sooo easy to get him to come.”

 

John’s left hand trembled as he felt his leg muscles turn to jelly. His sick fuck of an ex-boyfriend had Sherlock. _So?_ His rational brain threw back at him. What does that have to do with you? Sherlock had wanted to find Jim- his ‘admirer’. Now that it had happened, why the hell should it be of any concern to John?

 

He closed his eyes. He could feel Sherlock’s lips on his; needy and demanding yet hesitant and that strange verdigris gaze... John snapped his own eyes open as his breath hitched. Logically, he knew he was walking into a trap. But it had always been a question of ‘when’ Jim would catch up with him, and this way was better. Logic had nothing to do with his decision. **_He_** had fallen for Sherlock Holmes ‘hard and fast’, as Jim had put it. If that made him crazy, well he had been Jim Moriarty’s lovesick boyfriend for the last six months. This was a definite improvement on the crazy scale. His answering voice was devoid of fear. “Where?”

 

His hand was perfectly steady.

 

Jim sounded delighted. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint, darling. How about you stay put, and I’ll have you picked up in no time at all. There’s a good boy!” Jim’s voice turned steely again. “And I hope you will have no trouble imagining what could happen to your sister, if you try and get help. See you very soon.”

 

When the line cut off, over and above all the emotions John was feeling at that moment, he felt strangely grateful. He hadn’t faced Jim since he had learned the truth about him. He had been afraid of what his own reaction would be, when he eventually did. He had loved Jim so much that believing in the duplicity of the man he had expected to spend the rest of his life with had been the hardest part of everything. Even in hiding, he had wondered if he would have what it took to go the whole way; to stand in a witness box and testify against his former lover- to be the noose around Jim’s neck.

 

But now he knew for certain. If he did get the chance, he wouldn’t hesitate to just shoot Jim himself.

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock had known that Jim Moriarty wouldn’t condescend to meet him in the tunnels. That would just be a pick-up point. As he had expected, there was a black limo with tinted windows waiting for him. This was his last chance to walk away. Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around himself as he approached the car.

 

A masked man emerged from the back seat and patted Sherlock down thoroughly from head to toe, even checking his shoes. He directed the Detective into the backseat and passed him a phone. Sherlock took it wordlessly as the car started moving.

 

“Sherlock!” Jim gushed. “Right on time! Now if only you would be so kind as to let my man inject you without a fuss. Can’t have you figuring out where we are headed, can we?”

 

Sherlock was past the point of argument but he still hesitated before Jim chimed up again. “Don’t worry my dear; it’s not one of your old poisons. I’m really looking forward to having a proper chat. It defeats the whole purpose if you’re not yourself.”

 

Sherlock handed back the phone to the man and nodded slightly. His captor pulled out something that looked like an insulin pen. He placed it against Sherlock's neck and pressed the plunger. Sherlock had expected to pass out, but instead he seemed to become simply dizzy, and then unpleasantly disoriented, as if everything around him had become a mangled mess of colour. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back on the seat as he concentrated on not throwing up. __

When the effects of the drug began to wear off sufficiently to focus without nausea, Sherlock checked his watch to see how much time had elapsed. It had been less than forty-five minutes; in all likelihood they were still in London. As the car crawled to a stop the man next to him got out and held open the door. The gesture with the gun in his hand was quite unnecessary. Sherlock had no desire to remain in the car. He got out, blinking against the brightness of the underground garage.

 

Sherlock quietly limped behind the man while dissecting him mentally (six feet four inches, ex-army, smoker, with a recent injury to the left wrist; entrusted with the job of escorting Sherlock, so not some witless gun-for-hire; someone of importance in Jim’s organisation). He filed away the data for future reference. He was led over to an ordinary lift, the panel of which displayed eight floors. They got off on at the very top and Sherlock was marched through a nondescript grey corridor with unmarked black doors. Security cameras were present at every corner, turning to follow them as they walked. They finally reached a room at the end of the corridor, a plain black door like all others but this time with armed guards stationed outside. Sherlock's escort opened the door with some sort of a key-card and directed him inside. The door closed with a click behind him.

 

The opulence and proportion of the room belied its plain exterior. It was large, with polished marble floors and softly lit by a crystal chandelier. There were plush red curtains surrounding a four-poster bed which took up almost a full quarter of the room. His shoes noticeably sank into the decadent Persian carpet. There was a glass tea-table on the other side of the room, flanked by two wing-backed velvet-cushioned chairs. A sparkling silver tea service completed the luxurious picture. Sherlock moved to the nearest closed window, only to determine that it was solidly barred.

 

“That’s a tad insulting. You only just got here, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock very nearly did jump out of his skin at the sound of Jim’s voice, emanating from the chair with its back to the door. He rolled his eyes at the obvious slip-up, and then wondered if the drug he had been injected with was still in his system.

 

“Yes, you will be experiencing certain effects, but it doesn’t affect the central nervous system, so your thinking processes are more or less intact. Now come on, tea’s getting cold.”

 

Sherlock walked around the chair to face Moriarty. He was just as impeccably groomed as the last time, pinning Sherlock with the same hungry look as he had at the Pool.

 

“Where’s John Watson?” Sherlock asked.

 

Jim winced dramatically, baring his teeth in the process. “You know,” he drawled, “-for someone who was so wonderfully unpredictable during our last meeting, you are now being tediously dull.” His voice turned dangerous. “Don’t be boring, Sherlock. Sit down.”

 

Sherlock took a seat, but made no move to touch the refreshments laid out between them.

 

Jim smoothly poured out two cups of tea from the pot and sat back with his own cup. “I hope you haven’t forgotten our last conversation.”

 

Sherlock couldn’t have deleted the Pool even if he had tried, which he hadn’t.  His reaction to meeting his self-declared nemesis had been very different that first time, compared to how he was feeling right now. He didn’t dwell on the reason for the change.

 

Jim sighed theatrically. “I had promised you something, if you didn’t back off. And you have been so persistent. Seriously, Sherlock, how do you expect Daddy to work if you keep bothering me like this?”

 

“But you haven’t been working, have you?" Sherlock murmured."Barely a blip on the radar in the last few months. If I didn’t know any better, I would have to say that I had scared you away.”

 

Jim huffed out a small laugh as he placed his cup back in the saucer. “But you do know better. That’s why I called you today. You are the only one who can properly appreciate what I was up to. I've been working on this amazing Project for the last six months. It was a very difficult and delicate process but totally worth all the attention. Tomorrow will be the final stage.”

 

Sherlock’s voice was wooden. “If you’re talking about John-”

 

“Shh… Sherlock. Don’t rush. That’s the beauty of a chemical reaction or a mathematical equation; you need to go step by step." Moriarty paused expectantly. "No? Fine, as you wish. You’re the guest of honour, after all.” He hit speed-dial on his phone and said one word when it was answered. “Seb.”

 

The door unlocked with a click behind them as the same masked man from before stepped into the room with a laptop. He placed on the table and left without a word. Sherlock tried but failed to keep his face impassive as the screen showed a surveillance video of what looked like a padded room in a Psychiatric Hospital. John was clearly seated on the floor, leaning against a wall, hands wrapped around his knees as he stared at the featureless door on the far side. He appeared completely unhurt.

 

“Ta da!” Jim gestured with a flourish. “Am I the Wizard of Oz, or what? You know, Sherlock you were absolutely right at the Pool. Can’t threaten to burn what you don’t have in the first place. So, I decided to make you one.”

 

Sherlock had to drag his eyes away from the video to concentrate on what Jim was saying. “I never liked riddles.”

 

Jim gestured to the screen. “Isn’t he adorable, and yet so deliciously deadly.  When I saw him for the first time he was like a lost puppy at the airport. I approached him purely for recruitment purposes. The army background makes for wonderfully obedient and disciplined minions. When we started talking though, it took me less than five minutes to figure out that he would never work for me. But he was utterly fascinated by me, and vice-versa. I really felt like keeping him. Does that sound familiar?”

 

“You’re insane.”

 

“You’re getting that now?”

 

“So, you decided to _keep_ him, is that it? Play the domestic boyfriend? Keep house? Dull.”

 

Jim wrinkled his face in disgust. “You have no idea. BUT, it did have its upsides.” He gave a lascivious wink **.** “He’s nicknamed ‘three continents Watson’ by his army buddies for a reason. It was so very… educational. Would you like to know the details? I may even have a video or two.”

 

Sherlock gripped the arm-rests and closed his eyes as a wave of nausea swept over him. He was having a hard time staying rational, which was a first for him. He suppressed with great difficulty the impulse to strangle Jim Moriarty with his bare hands. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes to see Jim staring at him almost euphoric with happiness as he continued. “And look at you now! The experiment has succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. I had thought you would meet him as the Yard’s designated Moriarty specialist. But Johnny surprised me as usual.”

 

It still didn’t make any sense and Sherlock shook his head. “That’s illogical. You couldn’t possibly have predicted what would happen.”

 

Jim relaxed back in his chair with a smile on his face. “And yet, here you are… You could also argue that my intervention was unnecessary. That even if I had arranged for John Watson to simply meet you first, things would have progressed in a similar fashion. I didn’t _have_ to break his heart. But that would have taken ages, and would have been dreadfully boring to wait for. You know better than anyone, how a fast reaction requires a good catalyst. He was primed to fall in love with you. You were an exact antithesis; a Jim on the side of angels. The poor sod didn’t stand a chance. You, on the other hand...no one other than me could have predicted that Sherlock Holmes was such a hopeless romantic behind the whole sociopathic routine. Bit disappointing, I admit.”

 

Sherlock gave a humourless laugh in a last bid to salvage the situation. “You’re sadly mistaken, Jim. I came here to meet you. I have no interest whatsoever in John Watson.”

 

Jim’s black eyes glittered strangely in the half-light. “Are you sure? Because what you choose next will determine if John Watson lives tonight. Watch.”

 

As Sherlock looked back to the screen the camera moved upwards, away from John, and focussed on the opposite wall. It appeared padded and plain white like all the others except for the small round opening which had appeared, covered with a metal mesh on the inside.

 

“Oh!” Jim winced, “I almost forgot.” He made a show of leaning forward and clicking off the mute button.  A weird hissing noise filled the quiet room, and Sherlock knew exactly what it was.

 

“Stop it.” He said quietly but urgently as he sat up straight in his chair.

 

Jim pulled a comical pout. “But we haven’t even gotten to the best part yet. Ah…there it is.”

It was John. He had started coughing.

 

“STOP IT.” Sherlock had barely kept from screaming.

 

John now sounded like he had in the alley, unable to breathe. It was a thousand times worse to just hear the sounds without being able to see him.

 

Jim snickered as he pulled a single white pill from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Go ahead, Sherlock. You don’t care about John Watson. Prove it. You can walk away right now and my men will simply drug you and drop you back at Baker Street. I’ll still be here, planning our next game. Things will go back to the way they were before.  Or, you will do exactly what I tell you to do for the next twenty-four hours. The timer starts when you take this pill and at the end of it if you have done the job, John Watson will walk free. I even promise not to trouble him during that time if you are sufficiently obedient.”

 

Sherlock hesitated for barely a moment before he darted forward and dry swallowed the pill. He chased it down with the stone-cold tea and sat back staring at Jim squarely, waiting for it to act.

 

“Good boy,” Jim murmured. He tapped the requisite command on the keyboard and the vent slowly closed, cutting off the hissing. John’s heavy breathing was the only sound in the hushed room.

 

Sherlock slumped in the chair as he felt his limbs slowly turn to lead. He blinked rapidly as the room began to blur around the edges. His head drooped as his neck muscles lost control and he sensed rather than saw Jim getting to his feet, coming close enough to steady him in the chair.

 

“There, there. I have to be off now. Don’t worry, it was only a sedative. If you remember, I had that stupid cabbie killed for trying to pull his little trick on you. Only I’m allowed to play with you and I need you well rested for tomorrow.” The last thing Sherlock felt was a gentle hand caressing his brow as the hateful voice whispered, “Nighty night, Sherlock.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

John was on the padded floor trying to draw huge breaths as fresh air flooded the room. He had heard the hissing from an overhead vent but he'd had nowhere to escape to. He had tried drawing shallow breaths and then simply holding his breath, but he could keep that up only for so long. When the pungent odour had finally hit him, he could not help feeling suffocated. Just as suddenly, the hissing had stopped and he could smell clean air again. He had no idea what the point of the whole exercise had been, but as he heard the click of his cell's lock, he knew he was about to find out.

The door swung open to admit the same masked man who had escorted him here. Not that John had the faintest idea where ‘here’ was. He hoped Sherlock was being held somewhere in the vicinity and would have a better idea of their location. He sat up quickly, unwilling to show any weakness. The man said nothing as he hauled John to his feet and snapped on a pair of rigid handcuffs, fastening his hands in front of him. He was then marched out of the basement room and escorted to a lift which took them from their current level, up to the eighth floor. He followed the man without protest as he was lead to a room at the end of a corridor. The man silently accompanied him inside.

John's eyes barely stopped to register the luxurious room he was ushered into, before they settled on the figure of his triumphant ex-fiancé, lounging on a plush chair. The room otherwise seemed to be empty. He wondered at the surge of hatred he felt the sight of Jim; at how his feelings could have undergone such a monumental change in the span of a day.

Jim’s smile was positively lecherous as he studied John. “You can talk, Johnny dear.”

John was through playing games. Right now he was itching with the urge to break something (preferably Jim’s jaw). But he would settle for the obnoxiously delicate coffee table. No sooner had he made a move towards Jim than he felt a strong hand wrapping around his neck. A heavy palm held him in place with brute force before he felt the nudge of a muzzle in the small of his back. He stilled instantly, biting out through gritted teeth. “You win, Jim. But if you expect my co-operation, I need to see Sherlock. RIGHT NOW.”

Jim widened his eyes in a mocking portrayal of a scolding parent. “You really need to keep your voice down, John," he whispered. “He rarely sleeps.” He gestured towards the four-poster bed which had been obscured by hangings on three sides, and which John had previously ignored. His heart stuttered as he saw a fully clothed Sherlock laid out on the sheets, to all intents and purposes fast asleep.

Jim sauntered over to the supine form as John watched helplessly, pinned by the gun to his back. The consulting criminal perched on the bed next to Sherlock’s hip, his fingers toying gently with the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. “Looks like an angel, doesn’t he? And I didn’t even have to lay a finger on him so far. He was so obedient, even swallowed the pill himself. All for you, Johnny.”

John gritted his teeth, feeling nauseated at the once familiar gesture Jim had always used before initiating sex. His earlier episode was starting to make a sick sort of sense. He looked up to find Jim studying him calculatingly. “Alright Jim, you made your point. What do you want?”

“I want you to shoot someone for me. By shoot I mean kill, of course.”

“No.”

One of Sherlock's black shirt buttons neatly slipped out of its hole and Jim’s hand slid down to toy with a second. The thread of restraint that had been holding John together snapped. He threw himself forward with an inarticulate cry, not caring if the man holding him decided to go ahead and shoot. His captor merely tightened his hold on John's neck however, and within a few seconds John was gasping for air as, for the second time that evening, he came close to blacking out.

“Easy, Seb. Plenty of time to kill him later.”

Sherlock hadn’t even stirred at Jim’s touch.

“He’s drugged. It was the only way to get him into bed.” Jim stated, accent lilting in that same mocking, parental tone again. He teased a third button open, exposing a swathe of pale skin. “Last chance, John. Feel free to refuse. As far as I’m concerned, the situation is a win-win. If it helps, the man I want you to kill is not a very nice man.”

A competitor then, though John was finding it very hard to picture an adversary other than Sherlock who could pose a challenge to the consulting criminal. It was easier if he assumed that the man he was supposed to kill was evil, and he shuddered inwardly as the enormity of his assumption hit him. He was already considering it; considering shooting a man in cold blood. All he knew was that he wanted Jim’s slimy hands off Sherlock. There was nothing he wouldn’t do if it ensured Jim would never touch Sherlock again.

It didn’t make any bloody sense.  _Why him?_  A man like Jim must have dozens of assassins at his beck and call. That was when he had his second epiphany.

“You need me to take the fall for this killing.”

“Very good, John. Guess Sherlock’s rubbed off on you more than I did. But then you never really knew me.” Jim's hand strayed lower.

“I’ll do it.” John said abruptly, eyes closed. His breath was heaving as if he'd run a mile. “Leave Sherlock alone. If I do this you’ll let him go, Jim. That’s my only condition. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Jim’s answering smile couldn’t possibly have been wider. “Good choice, Johnny. Tell you what; I’m feeling a bit generous today. And I did promise you a date.” He winked and got off the bed, moving towards the door. “You have till morning to enjoy Sherlock’s company.  Seb?” he called over his shoulder. The man who was holding John kneed him viciously from behind, toppling John roughly to the floor and leaving him sprawled face-down on the rug as Moriarty took his leave. The door thumped shut, the click of the lock snapping closed with a definite sense of finality as John was left alone in the room with Sherlock.

Jim hummed tunelessly as he walked towards the Control room. “That’s two for two,” he threw back at his right-hand man who had now taken off his mask. “I think we are quite on schedule for tomorrow.”

That was the problem with too much intelligence, Seb thought. Too much theory, too little practice. He had to speak his mind. “You're going to give that man a gun? That’s insane, Jim. I can do it. Why do we need to take such a stupid risk?” Sebastian knew a thing or two about cornered soldiers. He had recognized the look in John Watson’s eyes. Even with Holmes as a bargaining chip, Watson was dangerously unpredictable.

“You worry too much, Seb. You’ll see. By the time John has to take the shot, he’ll do so quite willingly. The man who does this will be hunted down eventually and I would rather have John killed than captured.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jim gave an exasperated eye-roll. “You will be accompanying him for this one, Seb. As soon as he takes the shot, you will kill John Watson.”

 

***

Lestrade had been so good about not smoking. He had been truly trying to cut down completely. It had been six months since his last cigarette and even that had been Sherlock’s fault. He knew that this time it would be doubly hard to give up. He puffed out the smoke from his twentieth fag of the day and decided that lung cancer would just give him an early release.

The meeting with the Chief Superintendent had been an unqualified disaster. The man had yelled for an interminable amount of time and Lestrade had had no choice but to listen. Their key witness was gone; that in itself made the information provided by him not just unreliable but effectively useless. John had to be physically present in order to give evidence. Unfortunately his presence or absence was a moot point at the moment, as they were no closer to catching Moriarty than before. Lestrade had been expected to justify the expenditure for protecting John, his reasons for losing him and cancelling the earlier operation and his inability to find him. All while Sherlock, who was responsible for creating this mess in the first place, had buggered off to God knows where and wasn’t answering his phone. Typical!

It was late when Lestrade finally reached his flat. All the thoughts of the long hot shower he intended to take flew out of his head when he unlocked his front door and stepped inside. His first reaction was to reach for his phone, but the strange girl who had so far been making herself at home on his sofa, jumped up in fright. “Don’t call no one. Please! I'm not breakin’ in, I swear!”

The voice stopped him. Jesus! She was just a kid, though she hardly looked it. One sweeping look around his flat ascertained that everything was untouched. The girl was still looking uncertainly at him, biting her lower lip. Up close, she didn’t look a day older than fifteen. If he had been Sherlock, he would have noticed the freshly washed face and the patched up coat and discerned the poor attempt to be taken seriously. How the hell did she get in without picking the-

“He gave me a key. I swear, I didn't break nothin'. He was supposed to contact me this morning and, if he didn't, he told me I had to come straight here.” She stopped and swallowed as if not knowing whether to trust Lestrade. “It means Mister Holmes is in trouble.”

 

***

 

John had always wanted to be a doctor. His giving nature had been a huge factor in making that decision but, most importantly, the attraction of the job was in its simplicity. At the core of it, if you were honest, being a doctor had very few grey areas. If there is a sick patient, you have to treat him to the best of your ability. Simple. Selecting Surgery had simplified it even more. Signing up as an Army medic had led many of his friends to question him about his support for a pointless war, but none of those questions held weight when he had to patch up an eighteen year old kid, bleeding out into the sand as mortar shells and rifle fire whistled around him. It had been downright easy. There had been no moral ambiguities when he had to act. Not until now.

They had left the handcuffs on. The rigid cuffs were not a design he had seen before. Breaking his fingers wouldn't be any help. He scooted closer to the bed and awkwardly measured Sherlock’s pulse, checking his vitals and trying to ignore the tremor in his other hand.

The Detective’s heart-rate was slow but steady, a common side-effect of barbiturate intake. He sighed as his own pulse approached normal for the first time since seeing the unconscious man. Sherlock’s breathing was even, lips slightly parted in sleep, dead to the world.

John tried to imagine it - a world without Sherlock Holmes - but his imagination came up short. He had voluntarily walked into this death-trap for Sherlock. He would do anything for Sherlock; die for him, kill to protect him if need be. He shivered at the implications of Jim’s threat; one which went far beyond simply killing the Detective. He would be damned if he sat by and let Jim have his way. In the dead of the night, as he sat helplessly looking at Sherlock, he was forced to admit to himself what he had so far ignored. Sometime between beating up counterfeiters and making the second cup of tea, he had fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes.

He did up the open buttons of Sherlock's shirt, fingers shaking as he contemplated his deal with the devil. Jim had played his cards well.

If Jim was telling the truth, Sherlock had followed him here. He was here for John, not Jim.  _This is the time you picked to cheat on your Wife?_  The man did not possess an ounce of self-preservation. He wished Sherlock were awake so he could yell at him, punch him…snog him senseless.

John shook his head as he decided to look at his options pragmatically. Jim expected him to shoot someone. If John refused, Jim's man would shoot him on the spot as Jim would have had absolutely no reason to keep him alive. That would leave Sherlock alone and helpless in the clutches of a mad-man, who would... He couldn’t abandon Sherlock like that.

Now that he had agreed, they would have to arm him. Jim would still have Sherlock as a hostage, but the gun would be in John's hand. He could botch the shot, he could just injure the mark who would probably be heavily protected.  _And you think Jim would not have thought of that?_  His common-sense whispered back sardonically. There were too many unknown factors. He would have to think about the shooting when he actually came to it.

Truth was, John had only agreed as it would gain them the one thing they really needed in order for a rescue- Time.

He looked at his wristwatch to find that the night was almost over. Was it just yesterday at dawn that he had kissed Sherlock for the first time? Whatever the final outcome, it was very likely that he wouldn’t survive tomorrow. He desperately wished he could talk to Sherlock one last time. Jim had mocked him by leaving him alone only while the man was insensate. John levered himself on the bed and scooted closer to Sherlock's body, looping the cuffed circle of his arms around the still form so that Sherlock was pressed against him. He could feel Sherlock’s heart thudding through his back.

He didn't even realise when he drifted off to the reassuring beat.

 

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I really apologise to all of you for the delay but I just started a new job and it's in day and night shifts which leaves me completely exhausted during waking hours. Need some time to adjust. Writing is the only thing keeping me cheerful as of now... moral of the whining is that I'll try not to delay so much the next time and thank you for your patience.)


	8. Chapter 8

John woke suddenly with a gasp. He didn't remember dreaming and for a moment was unsure what had disturbed him. The plush canopy of the four-poster above him left him wrong-footed for a second before his memory re-asserted itself. The next thing he realised was that his right hand was awkwardly trapped below Sherlock’s side and the only reason why the circulation to it had remained intact was because the bed was unusually soft. He sighed as the events of the night before caught up with him, and leaned forward to press a soft kiss on the neck of the sleeping man.

Entwined as he was around Sherlock, he felt the tremor that passed through him as if it were his own. The detective was awake but unmoving.

A frisson of alarm coursed through him at the thought of the possible after-effects of the drug Sherlock had been given; a concern which dissolved when he felt slim, long fingers wrap gently around his own handcuffed wrists.

“There’s a camera on the wall behind you. If I don’t move for a bit, they may not realise that I’m awake,” came the whispered baritone. “I’m supposed to be out for at least another hour. Jim forgot to take my increased tolerance into account.”

The fingers around John's wrist gave a reassuring squeeze. “How are- Did they hurt you again? Talk to me, John.”

This was the first time Sherlock had called him by his real name. John suppressed a shiver as the soft baritone wrapped around the common syllables with an overwhelming intimacy, like a whispered caress. 

This was the extent to which his wish had come true, John thought desperately. He could feel his heart beat a staccato rhythm against his ribs as he wished things could’ve been different. He had truly believed that first the war and then Jim had broken him beyond repair; that he would never be capable of trust, of love, of making a real connection to another human being ever again.

But then the man in his arms had literally dropped into his life and proved him wrong. He was brilliant, beautiful, complex and devastating at the same time. Sherlock had saved him, rescued him from the pit of apathy he had been trapped in. Even if he were to die today, he would die as John Watson, an ex-RAMC soldier; as much in control of his death as he had been of his life. He was no longer an empty husk of a man who would have shot himself in a pathetic bedsit with no one to mourn his passing.

If only he had met Sherlock first instead of Jim. He could have imagined himself spending the rest of his life with this man. An entire lifetime lost to the vagaries of chance. Now all he had were a few precious minutes and he decided he wouldn’t waste them in pointless regret.

Not that he regretted a thing. If Jim hadn’t met him, he would probably have never met Sherlock. If he had once believed that he would die fighting for Queen and Country then sacrificing himself while trying to protect a man like Sherlock Holmes would be no less an honour. His heart felt suddenly swollen with the intensity of his conviction.

John shifted his hands slowly, taking care that there was minimal movement at his shoulder as he entwined his fingers with Sherlock’s. He had to make these final moments count. “Sherlock, you are the most amazing person I have had the honour of knowing. You saved my life in more ways than you can imagine…”

Sherlock’s body stiffened in protest at these words. “John,” he tried to interrupt.

“No… don’t interrupt. Let me finish. I need to say this. Thank you for being you. For being so different and incredible; for giving me a reason to live,” (And die for, he added mentally). “I’m sorry but I couldn’t help it. I love you, Sherlock. I love you just as the mad genius you are. I hate the fact that it was Jim who made me realize it, but it is the truth and I needed you to know before-”

Whatever John had been about to say was cut off as the man trapped in the circle of his arms abruptly turned and warm lips collided with his. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him like a vice. There was nothing sweet about this kiss. It was hungry, desperate, wanton; all teeth and tongue and it was all John could do to simply hold on to the grim reality of the situation as it seemed to slip away in the sudden onslaught of sensation. It was Sherlock who broke apart first, kissing a line down his jaw before grabbing John’s head between his own free hands. 

“It’s not a goodbye, John. Don’t you forget that! I won’t let anything happen to you. Now, you need to tell me exactly what Jim said to you.”

John had been determined to not reveal the details of his arrangement. But Sherlock’s body was pressed fully against his own and the compelling eyes brooked no argument.

“He wanted me to-”

The muted electronic click of the door opening sounded loud in the silence. John pressed a feverish last kiss against Sherlock’s lips before the door swung open completely. “I love you, you mad git.”

The expression on Sherlock’s face was desolate as he recalled Jim’s mocking words- ‘primed to fall in love with you…The poor sod didn’t stand a chance’. But this could be the last time he would ever see the ex-soldier. Against all reason he whispered back, “So do I, whatever happens…”

***

“We have a problem.” Sebastian began without preamble as he entered the control room. “Check out south east camera 4.” Jim brought up the view. Someone was lounging casually against the far side of the road. The camera showed a familiar face with silver hair.

Jim smirked. “He can’t get inside without a warrant. And there is no evidence of any wrong-doing. He can stand there all day. It doesn’t matter.”

Sebastian didn’t feel so cavalier about the Detective Inspector. But he kept his doubts to himself as he whipped up the second image at the keyboard himself. “Holmes regained consciousness two hours earlier than expected. We removed John within five minutes of realizing it. But John may have tipped him off about the shooting.”

“You don’t know John Watson. He doesn’t share his-” Jim suddenly stopped talking, eyes glued to the monitor, still as a stone as Sherlock stuck his tongue down John’s throat. He had wanted this to happen. This was the plan. So why did he feel like someone had thrust a hot poker in his gut and was now twisting it slowly? He froze the video on the kiss, moving his hand carefully up towards the screen, as if permitting it to move faster would somehow shatter it.

“When?” He asked. Sebastian had never heard that particular tone in Jim’s voice.

“About an hour back. I have moved Watson back to his cell. They have eaten... Well, Watson has. Holmes barely touched his food.” Sebastian took a hesitant pause when he saw that Jim hadn’t taken his eyes off the screen. “Jim?”

Jim got off the chair and walked out of the Control room, his movements unhurried. He walked evenly up to his suite, where Sherlock had been imprisoned. Sebastian hastened to open the door, his sense of foreboding rising every second. Jim brushed past him to walk over to Sherlock, who made no move to defend himself as Jim released all his pent-up fury on him. A vicious right hook toppled the Detective to the floor until Jim hauled him up by his lapels , his face inches from Sherlock’s as he shook him. 

“That was for touching things that don’t belong to you.”

Sherlock chuckled through bloody lips, a triumphant look in his eyes. Jim whirled to Sebastian. “Clean him up and get him to the Control Room. We have work to do.” Sherlock’s mocking laughter followed him all the way to the door.

Fifteen minutes later, a very different Jim Moriarty faced Sherlock across the console of the most sophisticated computing System he had ever laid eyes on. Jim’s purposeful glare was partially obscured by rimless glasses and the wild fury that Sherlock had briefly glimpsed had now seemingly vanished. Dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, Jim was all business as he carelessly indicated the monitor to one side which showed John enclosed in the same room as yesterday.

Sherlock’s clothing was wholly inadequate for the chilled room temperature. The split lip and the bruised cheekbone stung mercilessly in the cold air. They helped remind him that behind the façade of padded rooms and crystal chandeliers, Jim Moriarty was still only human.

“After this,” Sherlock said gesturing towards his swollen face, “Do you really expect me to believe that you would hurt John?”

Jim’s lips curved in an ugly sneer. “You are so naïve. The only thing it proves is that I don’t like sharing my toys. John Watson belongs to me. If I can’t have him, no one can.”

“If you are going to kill him anyway, I don’t see the point of our arrangement. You said you would let him go free if I did as you asked.”

Jim’s grin widened. “Yes I will. But the same doesn’t apply to you, my dear. Even if your task doesn’t get you killed, you will be a marked man for the rest of your life. You would never endanger John by going back to him. I'd welcome you to the Dark Side and all, but it's a bit cliche, don't you think?”

In spite of the sense of foreboding, Sherlock felt his curiosity rise. Jim’s voice had been a challenge. Whatever the job was, it would be interesting.

“So, Sherlock what do you think this is?” Jim said, tapping the screen right in front of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock scrolled through the data briefly.

Project H.O.U.N.D., highly classified; a gas which induced content-controlled hallucinations-the first step in suggestible mental manipulation. Experiments in primates and initial human testing showed increased paranoia and induced homicidal behaviour. Project abandoned.

A mutant Rhinovirus, sub-species unspecified, developed through genetic manipulation for a Biological Weapons Research programme. Case fatality rate of 100% across all primate species with all attempts at finding a cure unsuccessful. Project abandoned.

Project Alatheia was about the development of a powerful chemical truth serum, which had been approved for human testing after showing no detrimental effects on experimental primate subjects. It was then found to produce irreversible neurological damage in the first batch of human subjects (no names or numbers mentioned) it had been tried on. Project abandoned.

The information was in fragments, a tantalising peek into the research but with the vital data missing.

“Where did you get this?” Sherlock’s voice was a whisper, unable to keep the wonder out of it. Jim’s eyes were shining gleefully.

“It was an M.O.D. file I accidentally hacked into, while trying to get at some covert plans for a client. BORING! But you know how it is- sometimes, anything is better than nothing. Besides, I’ve got an organisation to run. It was like panning the river for stray gold and stumbling upon the mother-lode. But it was too heavily protected and I wasn’t prepared. I pulled off a fucking miracle when I got out and ensured that they couldn’t trace the intrusion back to me. And there was always the next time.”

“Let me guess, the next time you hacked into the system, the information wasn’t there.”

“It was as if it had never existed in the first place. I wasn’t kidding when I threw the Bruce-Partington Plans into the Pool, Sherlock. I know the M.O.D. System like the back of my hand. I wrote half of their programs, though they don’t know it yet.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because that information is the ransom for John Watson’s life and freedom. You are going to get the hard copy of those files for me.”

He was studying Sherlock calmly, while the detective repressed an involuntary shudder. With the geeky glasses and casual clothing, Jim Moriarty looked nothing like the man who had casually strapped bombs on people all over London in order to play a game. Sherlock could easily picture what Jim would do if he got his hands on the recipe to manufacture a common cold with the death rate of Ebola. 

There was no way he would be instrumental in letting that happen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John trapped in the clutches of this monster and swallowed his immediate reaction.

“Did you consider that after your failed attempt, those files may have already been destroyed so that someone like you couldn’t get to them?”

“That was the pretty picture they tried to paint, when I sent my feelers out. But with the kind of potential that research had in military application? With the kind of money they must have already spent? The Government would never do that. They would rather wait for someone like me to come along uninvited and run human trials for them. So I decided to oblige them and find exactly where they had secreted the information away. I had expected to trace it to one of the usual places, like Porton Down or Baskerville. Getting into those places would’ve been easy-peasy. But all my network discovered was that, as far as the M.O.D or the Secret Service knew, the data had been genuinely destroyed. It took a little tenacity, but I dug deeper. That’s when I found that I wasn’t dealing with someone ordinary. It was someone powerful, someone who had managed to make the data ‘disappear’ right under everybody’s nose. Someone who would dare to secure a file that isn’t even supposed to exist within a civilian residence. Mind you, knowing the exact place didn’t make the recovery any easier.”

“So my job is…burglary? Really, Jim? I thought you had minions for that sort of thing.”

“Of the last three professional burglars who attempted the feat- and I only deal with the best in the business- two were killed during the attempt and the third disappeared. And none of them even managed to locate the actual hiding place.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, intrigued.

Jim’s smile was positively predatory. “Exactly! So I decided that a different set of qualifications were required. Let’s just say, a more… fraternal touch.”

Sherlock's expression tightened, annoyance visible in every line of his body. "You want me to steal from Mycroft? I'm frankly insulted that you aren't aware my brother is so devoted to queen and country he would shoot me himself before letting anything that highly classified fall in your hands."

Jim wrinkled his nose. "Consider it a challenge," he said. "If you’re successful, John lives on as a free man. Of course it comes at the cost of your reputation because let’s face it- the Iceman would know it was you, though I'm sure I could always find a little space for you under my protection. You're going to need it when this is over." Jim pushed his glasses up his nose thoughtfully. "I'm giving you free reign on this, Sherlock. Anything you need to get the job done. Just be aware that I will be listening, and if I get the faintest notion that you've opened your pretty mouth to tell Big Brother anything at all, John Watson will live just long enough to really regret having met you."

Jim’s smile widened slowly, cruelty flashing sharply in the set of his mouth. “Set a thief to catch a thief. Or in this instance, a Holmes to outwit a Holmes. That’s your task, Sherlock; to outwit the only man you know is cleverer than you. Now tell me, are you still bored?”


	9. Chapter 9

Lestrade studied the building across the road. It looked like any other over-priced block of flats, but Kitty had been emphatic that this was where Sherlock had been ‘taken’ to. He sighed as he recalled the details. She had been waiting in the tunnels at Blackfriars as per the written instructions Sherlock had left. She had followed Sherlock at a distance, as instructed, and then seen him get into a big black car which had been waiting for him. He had been frisked by a masked man before being driven away but she hadn’t seen any weapons or any other method of coercion used on Sherlock. So the supposed ‘abduction’ had been completely voluntary.

 

Sherlock’s written instructions to her had been very thorough though. Kitty had recruited Eddie using the phone Sherlock had given her. Eddie was an ex-homeless cabbie Sherlock knew well and Eddie had tailed the car to the gate of the building that Lestrade was now standing in front of.  The homeless network had taken turns to keep an eye on the place since then. By their reckoning, Sherlock was still inside.

 

As much as Lestrade would have loved to call the story far-fetched, there were too many suggestions to the contrary. Sherlock never went anywhere without his phone, but this time he had left it at Baker Street. No one had been able to trace John Watson at all and, worryingly, _this_ was classic Sherlock; going off to tackle a homicidal bomber on his own.

 

But this was central London; not exactly an inconspicuous place to whisk off kidnapped victims to. Besides, he had asked Donovan to check up on the owners. The building was an exclusive residential complex. He had tried to enter the building but had been politely asked to come back with a warrant. It was a legitimate though awkward request. He had asked Sally to start background checks on the residents, without revealing his suspicions. His team would be the first to scoff at him if he did. Sherlock had been supposedly missing for less than twelve hours and there was nothing to indicate foul play other than the word of a homeless girl. Kitty had understandably refused to get any more involved with the investigation after sharing the information with Lestrade. At the end of the day, Sherlock could be perfectly fine and he could be wasting his time.

 

But years of detective work had honed his instincts; the same instincts which had once told him that Sherlock Holmes was no ordinary junkie. His phone buzzed.

 

“Tell me that you have something for me, Donovan.”

 

“Squeaky clean Sir; five-figure apartments on each floor. It's all bankers, city-boys and minor TV personalities. I spoke directly with the lettings company for every unit, except on the top one. That’s privately owned by an investment company which sub-lets the apartment to its Executives. A very polite butler informed me that it’s unoccupied at the moment.”

 

“What’s the name of the outfit?”

 

“Uh…” he could hear her rifling through the papers as she searched. “It’s called Rim Majority Investments, Sir. The owner on record is someone called Richard Brooke. Did a quick search. No prior convictions, or at least none that show up on record.”

 

"What, not even a parking ticket?" Lestrade asked.

 

"Nothing, Sir."

 

The vague sensation of unease in Lestrade's gut solidified into a dead weight that made his stomach sink rapidly. His voice remained calm as he fired rapid orders. “Donovan, we are putting this building under round the clock surveillance as of this moment. Send Peters and Fielding down here to relieve me. By the time I reach the office, I want every bit of paper-work you can dig up on Rim Majority, Mr Brooke and this flat. And I mean every bit: contact information, client list- hell, call the Thames Water and The National Grid and pull up their water and power-bills for this place.

 

Sally’s voice was suitably confused, “What exactly am I looking for, Sir?”

 

“Anything,” Lestrade couldn’t keep the agitation out of his voice any longer. “Any discrepancy that would justify us getting a search warrant for the top floor.”

 

“For an investment company apartment?” came the incredulous query.

 

“Rim Majority is an anagram. I think this is the real thing, Donovan. This is Moriarty’s Headquarters.”

 

***

 

_“I want to play black this time, Mycroft. You always make me play white. Bet I’ll beat you if I play black.”_

_“Patience, Sherlock. Playing the white pieces is an advantage. When you make the first move, you get a chance to control the game from the beginning. **You** dictate the game. You need to learn that first. Playing the black side is a lot harder as that requires you to be able to foresee your opponent’s plan. But before that you need to master the game when you can start it on your own terms. I’ll make you a deal. If you defeat me while playing white, I’ll let you play black the next time.”_

Sherlock had never earned the chance to play the black pieces against Mycroft.

 

Sherlock tried not to dwell on that as he showered in the en-suite bathroom. His memories of Mycroft were tinged with too much bitterness. Try as he might he had never been able to delete them either, which was probably fortunate considering the present situation.

 

True to his word, Jim had complied with his every demand when Sherlock had outlined his plan. Climbing out of the shower, he dressed in a new suit that someone had laid out for him and warily prodded the bruise on his chin, hoping it wouldn’t show up too clearly on the CCTV cameras. That would be counter-productive in convincing Mycroft about his willing participation. Though in the long run, it really didn’t matter.

 

It had come as no surprise to him that his megalomaniacal brother had chosen to keep the highly classified data hidden away in his own house- if you could call a place with life-size chess pieces for décor, a house. He would have loved to find out exactly how Jim had uncovered Mycroft’s exact role in the Government, but that would have involved letting Jim know that he was at least marginally impressed.

 

His brother had unfortunately made the right decision in having the information taken off the M.O.D. database and the wrong decision in not having it destroyed. Those experiments had been a drastic failure, and that was before you even got to the morally questionable nature of the research.  Had even a journalist or a run-of-the-mill hacker got his hands on the data, it would have still been a huge debacle for the Government. It was just the worst luck that they had Jim Moriarty to contend with instead.

 

In retrospect, he now regretted leaving a trail for Lestrade with the homeless network. Though he was well aware that he would have to be gone for at least 48 hours before being officially considered ‘missing’, he also knew that the Detective Inspector was more intelligent and intuitive than Sherlock often gave him credit for. But Lestrade also was under his brother’s surveillance and any suspicious activity on his part would alert Mycroft. Hopefully Lestrade would not believe Kitty (unlikely) or be too slow to catch on (even more improbable) or even if he did, he wouldn’t reveal his suspicions about Sherlock’s supposed abduction to his team. It wouldn’t do to have Mycroft warned of his compromised status. The last thing he wanted at this juncture was his brother attempting a ham-handed rescue. Or even worse, moving the information somewhere else so that Sherlock would lose his advantage, thereby making his deal with Jim null and void. Because Mycroft would know, and probably already knew exactly who was attempting to steal the data. He would prefer to see Sherlock dead than being used as a pawn by Jim Moriarty.

 

And Sherlock had no illusions about what would happen if he was caught during the attempt. Given a glimpse of the data he was supposed to steal, brother or not, Sherlock could simply not be allowed to escape with the information. Mycroft wouldn’t hesitate using any means necessary in order to stop him. If the stakes hadn’t been so high, he would have sabotaged the plan by tipping Mycroft off. But Jim had been tiresomely aware of that possibility. Sherlock seemed to have everything to lose.

 

Even if the theft was successful… especially if it was successful, Mycroft would know that Sherlock was involved. Jim was counting on it. Sherlock would have to run. He wouldn’t have a choice.  Returning back to 221B and his old life would be completely out of the question.

 

He tried not to be distracted by the memory of John’s stoic face and expressive eyes as he had been marched out, still handcuffed. He was about to forfeit his work, his reputation, his family and probably his life for John Watson. But this was a calculation he had already considered and accepted. He smirked as he pulled on the jacket, fully aware of the camera trained on him. He wished he had been trying to outwit his brother under different circumstances. Being offered an opportunity to do so was the only silver lining in all of this mess. He took a deep breath as he safely locked away the memory of his last kiss in the treasure room inside his mind-palace. Then he turned to another part of the room and began sifting through his memories of Mycroft.

 

***

 

“You look so worried,” Jim’s voice was challenging but there was a tinge of fondness as he regarded his right hand man across the room. Jim was swivelling carelessly as he lounged in his console chair. “You wouldn’t want me to think that you are scared of John Watson, would you?”

 

Once upon a time, Sebastian would have bristled at the implications of that statement. But months of working with Jim had left him considerably thick-skinned. He knew and accepted for a fact that just like Holmes the man had no brain-to-mouth filter. Oddly enough this was one of the reasons Sebastian had stayed on while his predecessors had failed to. They were in an ugly business and Jim never bothered to sugar-coat it. Just like Sebastian, he revelled in the forbidden excitement of it. But in a lot of ways the criminal mastermind was like a child, too easily distracted by the latest novelty. Changeable.

 

The initial plan had been to use Watson as leverage to get Holmes to steal the information. Once Jim had what he wanted, John could be disposed off at leisure or kept captive if required.

 

But Jim had changed his mind just like at the pool. And THIS was insane, what Sebastian was about to do. He wasn’t scared-far from it. The army had been mundane. The thrill of holding someone’s life at the mercy of his trigger finger had eventually become commonplace. He was done with mundane when he had been dishonourably discharged. He wouldn’t have known what to do with his life if it hadn’t been for Jim. Jim Moriarty, who constantly challenged Sebastian, tested his limits, whose complete lack of moral compunction paralleled his own. He tightened the straps of his bullet-proof vest as he considered Jim’s smiling countenance. “As long as you take care of your end, I can manage mine. But if Watson tries anything funny, I need you to tell me that I can take care of it.”

 

To anyone else it would have been imperceptible. The first time ever that Jim Moriarty had hesitated a split second before confirming a kill order.

 

Unfortunately Sebastian Moran wasn’t just anybody. He catalogued the pause and understood that he had gravely underestimated John Watson.

 

***

 

 _Timing!_ Everything depended on timing. Mycroft was as set in his habits as concrete. Wednesday afternoons were spent at The Diogenes. There were certain traditions of the archaic club that were too deeply rooted to be ignored, and Mycroft was fortunately a stubborn traditionalist. Sherlock already had the highest clearance needed to enter his brother’s home, so entry and exit would not be an issue. All that remained was figuring out the location of the hidden safe and the key-code to open it. He sorted through the memories till he reached the one he wanted-

__

 

_“You can’t go. I still have to build it,” his six year old self flopped down on Mycroft’s bed and grumbled as the older boy packed._

_Mycroft chivvied him off the cushions so that he could get to the stack of neatly pressed uniforms on which Sherlock had been lounging. “Don’t be absurd, Sherlock. Only you can build it. It has to be **your** own place inside your head.”_

_Sherlock swung around the bed-post like a monkey, scattering all the socks that Nanny had neatly piled in a corner. “I don’t want mine to be a house. Why does it have to be a house? A house is too small. I want to build something bigger like a huge ship or a palace.”_

_Mycroft took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose before collecting the fallen socks and neatly tucking them one by one into the case. “It can be whatever you want, Sherlock- as big as you want. But of course, it depends on how much space you have inside your head.”_

_This prompted Sherlock to shut the flap of the suitcase and plop himself down on it so that Mycroft couldn’t get it open again. “I have lots of space in my head. One day, my head will be bigger than yours and I will have a mind-Palace. It will be much better than your stupid house. You’ll see!”_

_The scolding Mycroft had been about to utter died on his lips as took in Sherlock’s determined expression. Sherlock still didn’t know what Mycroft had seen in his face but in the next minute the older boy had scooped him up carried him to the windows overlooking the garden and sat him down on the sill._

_“What is this really about, Sherlock? You know that I have to go back to school like last year. It’s only a few years and then you can come too. I’ll be back for the Christmas holidays just like the last time.”_

_Sherlock screwed up his face against the sudden direct sunlight, telling himself that it was the brightness hurting his eyes at the moment. He knew that his big brother would have no patience for crying, snivelling babies. His mouth twisted in a sneer as he hurled back at Mycroft, “Last year, I hadn’t known about your mind-house. What if you forget me?”_

_“What?” Mycroft had never sounded so nonplussed before._

_“You only have a house in your head, Mycroft. You’ll be learning all new things all the time at school, making new friends and meeting new people and when those things fill up your house, you won’t have space for me and if you delete me…” Sherlock suddenly found that he couldn’t continue and he screwed his eyes tightly closed against the damned sun._

_In the next instant, the red heat which had tinged his eyelids disappeared as Sherlock was held tightly against Mycroft’s chest. He could feel his brother laughing and it only served to make him angrier. “It's not funny,” he yelled, his voice muffled as he beat his small fist on his brother’s shoulder._

_When Mycroft pulled back to face him again, there was no trace of humour in his eyes. He looked dead serious. “You’re right. That’s not funny at all. You were absolutely right to be worried.”_

_“I was?” Sherlock didn’t care that his voice slightly trembled._

_Mycroft smiled and sat down on the sill, hoisting Sherlock onto his lap. “You were right, but only because you didn’t have all the necessary information to know that what you are afraid of couldn’t possibly happen. Now you need to listen carefully because what I’m about to tell you is top-secret. I have a special, secret treasure room in my mind-house for the things that are really important to me; things I never want to forget,” he paused to tweak the tip of Sherlock’s nose and Sherlock felt a ball of warmth curl in his chest at the uncharacteristic gesture. “So my memories of you will always be safe in there. I couldn’t possibly forget or replace you.”_

_Sherlock stroked the fingers wrapped around his torso as he considered this. Mycroft had told him about the house in his mind that summer when Sherlock had suffered from one his ‘episodes’ of information overload as Mummy called them. Mycroft had explained to him how he had constructed it gradually and compartmentalised it over the years. It had helped to know that with practice and planning his mind would not always be the chaotic place it was at present. But he had never mentioned the treasure room before. “Where is it?” he demanded._

_“Make a deduction, Sherlock. If you had a house…oh alright, a palace in real life and you wanted to keep something really safe in it so that you wouldn’t carelessly rearrange it, where would you put it? It would have to be somewhere your guests wouldn’t ordinarily see, or that thieves couldn’t get at, and even if your palace was destroyed or set on fire the things most precious to you would have to be protected. Where do you think the treasure room would be?”_

_A smile lit Sherlock’s face as he answered; finally believing that he was one of the things his brother had chosen to treasure. “In the cellar!”_

_The smile echoed on Mycroft’s face as he ruffled his brother’s curls affectionately. “Exactly!”_

Sherlock calmly got up and walked to the sealed door before knocking three times to let Jim’s minions know that he was now ready.


	10. Chapter 10

 

It had been a few hours and the case had reached the point where the main priority was working the phones. Even the officers who were supposed to go off duty had stayed behind to help. Their enthusiasm wasn’t unexpected. James Moriarty wasn’t just another criminal. But Lestrade couldn’t help but wonder if they would have been equally enthusiastic if he had mentioned Sherlock’s suspected kidnapping. He banished the disloyal thought as he saw Sally furiously gesticulating even though whoever it was at the other end couldn’t possibly see her. Even Anderson had abandoned Forensics to help work through the mountain of background checks.

 

Sally slammed the phone down in frustration a moment later, snapping Lestrade out of his thoughts.

 

“Fuck!” she snapped, shaking her head tiredly at Lestrade. “All the Company backers are Chinese. Their lawyers keep bringing up a confidentiality clause when I try getting the backers to talk. It’s ridiculous. They know that they aren’t obliged to co-operate. One bloke pretended to not understand a word I was saying.”

 

Lestrade was just about to placate her when he was interrupted by Anderson’s loud, nasal voice-

 

“Bloody Hell! That’s ridiculous. And how come you didn’t report such disproportional consumption? Isn’t this the sort of thing you are supposed to watch out for? They could have been up to…No… wait, we just want to know if it’s illegal… that’s great…that’s just perfect. I need you to send over the numbers and the details. It’s urgent!”  
  


He put the phone down with a flourish. “That was the power company,” he grinned unable to stop the triumphant smile spreading across his face. Lestrade was incongruously reminded of his terror-stricken expression during the second blast orchestrated by Moriarty. It had been adjacent to the school Anderson’s daughter attended. “We are getting our warrant.”

 

***

 

Sherlock didn’t let a single muscle on his face twitch as Jim personally hooked him up with the camera and the microphone. Mycroft would spot the hidden camera in seconds though it was all but invisible within the cap of a pen that Jim inserted almost lovingly into his front jacket pocket. He slipped a fully loaded Smith and Wesson in Sherlock’s inner coat pocket with a wink, “Just in case.” Sherlock resisted the urge to grab the gun and just shoot the man with great difficulty. Jim seemed to sense this and smiled, “Don’t forget the rules, Sherlock. And don’t worry; I promise to keep the puppy alive till you get your hands on the information.”

 

It was hard not to miss the hulking man who had been a constant presence at Jim’s side. His absence and the elaborate preparations meant that he was to attempt this alone. He hadn’t expected that.

 

“Where’s _Seb_?” Sherlock smirked putting a special emphasis on the name.

 

“Oh, you naughty boy,” Jim waggled his eyebrows at him before wrapping the blindfold himself. “Don’t worry, if you’re good you can have him too. He’s a treat. Competent men are so hard to find. Sooner or later they all aspire to take control. Seb knows his place and is very good at keeping it.” Sherlock could sense the manic smile even if he couldn’t see Jim. “So will you, when you get back.” With a last straightening sweep of his hands over the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket, Jim stepped back with a flourish. “There. Off you go! And do hurry sweetheart. John doesn’t have all day.”

 

***

 

John leaned back against the wall where he had been unceremoniously dropped by Moran. It was uncomfortable but it was a hundred times better than being locked in the boot of the car which had brought them here. He hadn’t uttered a word of protest, knowing it to be a pointless endeavour. He rested his throbbing shoulder against the wall and concentrated on his breathing, not wanting to dwell on what he had agreed to do. He was gagged and his hands and feet were tightly bound, his struggles only succeeding in tightening the bonds. Besides, below the bland suit, Moran was wearing a bulletproof jacket and was armed to the teeth. An escape attempt would be almost entirely pointless.

 

The room he was in had been a grand affair once upon a time, but the air of abandonment had faded its opulence considerably. The floorboards were discoloured and there was paint peeling off the walls, but the fire-place against the far wall was pristine marble. He concentrated on the coloured veins that ran through it, trying not to think of the crime he was being forced to commit.

 

The avoidance technique didn’t help as Moran hauled in a large bag and after slipping on latex gloves began assembling a rifle at the closed window. An American M-21; so much for the handgun scenario he had imagined. It would be far more difficult to manoeuvre a 5 kg rifle if he wanted to make any sudden moves. When Moran had finished, he sat back on his haunches and considered John’s bound figure. He smirked before moving forward and loosening the gag.

 

“If you make a peep, you’re dead. I think you’re smart enough to know that your best bet is to just see this through and go to prison for a long time. You'll be locked up, but you'll be alive at least. Now, we could have a long wait. We might as well have a chat, you and I.”

 

John shifted against his bound hands, trying to find a comfortable position. Moran watched him patiently. The man had been calm and collected since he had come to fetch John from his padded prison, unmasked for the first time. Unlike your typical telly right-hand man, he didn’t use unnecessary violence or bluster. He had calmly introduced himself to John before proceeding to truss him up like a chicken. John didn’t remember a time when he had felt so powerless. He moved with unexpectedly feline grace for a man with so much bulk. His eyes were gunmetal green and just as cold.

 

John eyed the man and considered his options. “Who is it? The man I’m supposed to kill?”

 

“Does it matter?” Moran threw back carelessly. “It’s a target…point and shoot; won’t that make it easier?"

 

John huffed out an un-amused laugh, “Is that how you do it? How you could go so easily from being a soldier to being Jim’s good little errand boy?” John wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, but everything about the man screamed ex-army. John knew that it was a rather half-assed plan, but if he could provoke Moran enough to get badly beaten, he could probably avoid what came next.

 

Moran just smirked in response, “At least, it’s a better deal than being Jim’s sweet little bum-chum, don’t you think?”

 

All blood left John’s face at the remark. Moran’s smile widened, “Oh, don’t take it personally, _Captain,_ you started it. Besides, there is no shame in being outwitted by someone like Jim. Now there’s a man who knows exactly what he wants and how to go about getting it. You were a tool for sparring with Holmes, nothing more. You want me to feel ashamed for turning my back on my old life? You've got it backwards. I was a puppet in the army too; my strings being pulled by incompetent politicians fighting a pointless war we had no hope of winning. If I’m ashamed of anything it’s of my past. Jim Moriarty is a great man. He plays to win and there is no shame in wanting to be on the winning side. You, on the other hand, have a penchant for picking losers.”

 

John’s face had tightened as he listened to Moran’s little speech. “Think you have me all figured out, do you?”

 

“I can make out a few things on my own. Honourably discharged from duty in Afghanistan, a decorated war hero, discarded like rubbish when Queen and country was done with you. Then Jim comes along. He finds you and uses you for his little game. Then you choose a man like Holmes over Jim Moriarty? An ex-junkie who almost snuffed it for the next high? Now there's a loser with a capital L if I ever saw one. Don’t look like that- the Boss has a dossier on him that goes years back. I can’t understand his obsession with the weirdo. But that’s an insane genius for you. Like attracts like.”

 

John studied Moran’s easy smile and revised his opinion of the man as he slipped his own face into a neutral mask. He was completely at the mercy of this man and, unlike Jim, Moran was a model of rational, pragmatic insanity. His chances for botching the shooting were looking slimmer by the second. He only had one card left to play. “Too bad the man _you_ loved was busy fucking me for the last six months.”

 

There were no visible tells in Moran’s facial expressions but his arms clenched into fists at his side. “Nice try, Doc. But as you so cleverly figured out, I’d do _anything_ for Jim Moriarty. And Jim, as usual, knows the best way to break you. Nothing I do to you will compare to killing an innocent man. But I’m going to enjoy making you take a life. I’m going to enjoy seeing you crumble.”

 

As if on cue, the mobile on the floor buzzed between them. Moran picked it up, a slow grin lighting his features. "It’s show time.”

 

***

 

The unmarked car eventually deposited Sherlock two streets away from Mycroft’s Mayfair home. He didn't anticipate having much trouble getting in. Sherlock had always had level 5 clearance to enter his brother’s house. Mycroft had sarcastically drawled that it was necessary if only to prevent him from being arrested every time he decided to barge in without warning. The unspoken implication that Sherlock would _need_ to come crawling back to his big brother had not been lost on him.

 

This had always been one of the primary reasons for his falling out with Mycroft. As far as the elder Holmes was concerned, Sherlock was incapable of behaving like an adult. In Mycroft's eyes, Sherlock would always remain the irresponsible child who had so foolishly OD’d. Since the incident and the enforced rehab, Sherlock found it almost unbearable to even be in the same room as his brother for any length of time. The patronising sense of disapproval, disappointment and frustration his brother radiated was positively stifling. He acted like it was his duty to be a constant living, breathing reminder of all of Sherlock's failures.

 

Their relationship hadn't always been like that, of course. Sherlock hadn’t even known that he had nursed a hope of reconciliation until today. It was only when he was about to destroy any chance of it that he realised how much it was going to hurt. He paused before the numbered key-pad on the front gate, casting his eyes sideways to try and glimpse the invisible cameras he was sure were watching him.

 

There was a sudden, low whistle in his ear. “I must say, Sherlock. Your brother has style. Remember when I had someone break into that hovel you live in to plant Carl’s shoes? You could do with taking a leaf out of Mycroft's book.”

 

He chose to ignore the voice before punching in the appropriate code, the cascade of events it would set off already clear to him. His entrance wouldn’t sound any official alarms but Mycroft would be notified at his cushy club as soon as Sherlock typed the key. He would message Sherlock wanting to know the reasons for the sudden and unexpected home invasion. This was where he regretted not carrying his phone. It was still sitting uselessly back at Baker Street. He would have appeased Mycroft with some scathing comment about wanting to examine the decadent curtains for a case and bought himself some time.  The failure to reply would spike his brother’s interest. He would then ask one of his automaton-assistants to forward to him the footage of Sherlock entering the house to ascertain that it was indeed his brother who had used the code. That was where the deception would end.

 

Because Mycroft would see him and instantly know that something wasn’t right.

 

Sherlock knew that he had at most twenty minutes to complete his task; to find the files and leave un-accosted.

 

He was up the steps and through the front door in less than 15 seconds.

 

Pristine and pretentious were the two words that came to mind when looking around Mycroft's home. So much like the man himself. For all his misanthropic tendencies Sherlock had never been able to hold a candle to the way Mycroft had appeared to divorce himself from humanity at large. Just like the Diogenes, the House was Mycroft’s shield against the world; his fortress and retreat. It looked exactly the same as the last time Sherlock had visited, years ago. There were no signs of progression, or of being lived in. All the methods that Sherlock would have employed to locate a secret entrance- visible scratches, dust patterns- were of no use to him. It was a good thing that he had a fair idea where the entrance to the cellar would be.

 

He didn’t worry about there being any surveillance within the house. He had no time to be worried. With eighteen minutes to go, he slipped into his brother’s personal kitchen, which was separated from the main kitchen placed at the back of the house. He hadn’t wondered at the addition when he had seen it the first time. Mycroft had one true weakness and that was food. Like any true perfectionist, he had wanted to learn all the best ways to pleasure his own senses and had installed the second kitchen so as not to have to share space with the staff. Sherlock remembered his earliest experiments in baking, an endeavour which both of them had thoroughly enjoyed. The fully appointed kitchen was worthy of a five-star hotel and wasn’t just a decoration. Mycroft was an excellent cook when he could be arsed to get up and do it.

 

Sherlock flipped on the lights and took a few seconds to determine that the layout of the kitchen was unchanged since his last visit.  The entrance to the wine cellar was a hatch in the floor, tucked behind the cooking island. The cellar entrance was sure to be rigged with some kind of personal alarm.

 

Sherlock hesitated. This was his last chance to walk away. The point at which any pretence of innocence ended. He clutched the old ring, taking a deep breath before he yanked up the seemingly unprotected trapdoor and rapidly shimmied down the steel ladder.

 

The voice in his ear snickered. “My, we are in a hurry, aren’t we? Don’t really blame you. After all, the prize is worth the puzzle. You are making this look really easy though. Big brother is going to hate himself for trusting youuuu.”

 

Sherlock ignored the voice completely. Those were his instructions so he resisted the itch to snipe back. The wine cellar looked exactly like any of the hundred others Sherlock had seen in his life. It was cool and a touch damp, but well illuminated once Sherlock found the light switch. The racks lined up around the walls were dusty, old and stocked with rare vintage specimens any connoisseur would have been proud to have in his collection. For an ordinary thief it was the perfect foil. No one would look beyond the fortune lying out ready for the picking. Sherlock confidently made his way through the bottle racks till he reached the far wall. It looked like the others at first glance, pale brown in colour and seemingly innocuous. But Sherlock had studied paint textures and, though the colour matched, the texture didn’t. A single measured glance and a light touch proved that this wall had been painted recently. He removed a flexible gas-mask from his pocket and slipped it on. If Sherlock knew Mycroft at all, the entrance to the safe would be booby-trapped. Nothing fatal, but definitely something incapacitating; some sort of knock-out gas was his best guess.

 

Fifteen minutes.

 

He ran nimble fingers over the wall trying to find the invisible fault line or lever that would flip the opening. Thirty seconds…sixty seconds… he let loose a desperate growl.

 

“Look at you dance!” The breathy voice in his ear made Sherlock’s skin crawl-

 

-just as his fingers hit a nearly invisible bump in the wall and there was a muted click. He had a split second warning and he flattened himself to the ground as the portion of the wall he was standing in front of swung outwards and upwards. He breathed slowly through the mask, counting up to ten. But there were no signs of a trap.

 

Warily, Sherlock slowly levered himself off the floor. He'd been expectant of motion sensors within the opening that would trigger a secondary response but, worryingly, nothing happened. Nestled behind the fake wall was an open cupboard lined with stainless steel shelves. It was illuminated from within and there was a singe black case on the middle shelf right opposite Sherlock’s nose. It had a metallic texture and some sort of a digital combination lock. He could figure out the code later… or not. He could leave it for Jim. Ten minutes. It was time to leave.

 

He grasped the handle and tugged the case out of the cupboard. He rapidly made his way out of the cellar and up through the kitchen. He paused by the sitting room to shield the case from view within the folds of his coat, though he knew it would fool no one, least of all Mycroft. Sherlock was just about to open the front door when a low, placid voice stopped him.

 

“In a hurry to leave are we, Sherlock? Pity, I was about to pour you some tea. But then again, maybe not.”

 

Sherlock froze as the voice in his ear gleefully chuckled, “Ooooh dear!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A special and whole-hearted thanks AGAIN to my unbelievable beta, lady_t_220 . Without her input and corrections, this part of the story would have been a mess.
> 
> Also to all the readers who are reading this story as it's written, for your patience and encouragement- thanks; you have kept me from giving up!)


	11. Chapter 11

 

“Turn around, Sherlock and don’t forget the rules,” Jim sounded indecently happy.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and whirled on the spot to find his brother calmly seated on the chair before the fire-place. On closer scrutiny, he appreciated the fake façade for what it was. Mycroft wasn’t himself at all. Every controlled twitch of his face held barely-reined in fury. “Hello Mycroft,” Sherlock made his voice deliberately jaunty. “Fancy seeing you here. On a Wednesday afternoon, no less. Shocking!”

 

His voice didn’t betray the panic he was feeling. Unlike the rest of the world, he was fully aware of the scope and extent of his brother’s powers. He was caught. The cavalry was probably on its way, or waiting just beyond the door, to hush it all up. It wouldn’t be prison for him; that would not be acceptable for a man in Mycroft’s position. But there were other ways- the easiest would be to have Sherlock declared mentally unstable and confined in some private facility. A fate worse than a prison sentence, a fate worse than death, to be locked away in a padded room like John… John needs you. _Get a grip!_

“How…”

 

“How did I know that my brother was committing treason by stealing highly classified documents from my house, right under my nose?” Mycroft’s voice dripped with contempt. “It was simple. I had your clearance revoked six months ago. The instant you offered up the Bruce-Partington Plans on a public forum as bait to a terrorist bomber, you became a security threat I didn’t intend to take lightly. However, I never anticipated that my suspicions would be confirmed so dramatically. This is the first time in my life that I have no pleasure in being proved right. As for how I came to be here, you ought to choose your friends more carefully, Sherlock. Even if I had trusted you implicitly, it is hard to ignore a message that warns me with an exact date and time of the supposed attempt.”

 

“Ooops!” Jim cackled in his ear. “Seems like it won’t be so easy after all. Go ahead, Sherlock- convince him.”

 

“Mycroft… I can see what it looks like-”

 

Mycroft stood up slamming his umbrella on the floor in a burst of fury. “What it looks like Sherlock is that you seem to be working with Jim Moriarty now. I see no bombs strapped to you and I have had the rest of your contacts checked. They are all safe and secure, so I don’t presume that he has taken any hostages compelling you to take this step. _What it looks like_ is that your lack of common-sense coupled with boredom have lead you to shake hands with the devil. Have I missed anything?”

 

“Oh, he’s gooood! Come on, Sherlock, aren’t you going to explain yourself at all?” Jim taunted.

 

Sherlock felt the tremor that shuddered down his back. “If you are so sure that your brother’s turned traitor, why am I still free?”

 

The expression on Mycroft’s face was disturbingly painful. “I promised Mummy I would look after you. It is for the sake of my word to her that I’m offering you a final chance, Sherlock. Leave the case and return to Baker Street. I’ll make arrangements for you to leave England tomorrow, get you as far away from Jim Moriarty as I can. It’s my only offer and it’s non-negotiable.”

 

“Oh this is just priceless! The Iceman melts. No back-up!” The chortling tone transformed to hypnotic, persuasive. “You know what you have to do, Sherlock. Get on with it.”

 

But Sherlock simply couldn’t threaten one man for sake of the other. If he went through with the next step, he had to be prepared to see it through. The fingers of his free hand touched the gun in his coat-pocket and flicked the safety off. But he couldn’t bring himself to draw it out.

 

Something of his internal struggle must have flashed on his face for an instant, as Mycroft took a step forward, a puzzled frown diluting the anger on his face.

 

Jim’s hissed reply over the line was like a promise, “I broke John Watson’s heart on the off chance that it would get you to play the game, Sherlock. If you screw this up, it’ll be his body this time. By the time I’m through with him, he’ll beg me to-”

 

Before he realised, Sherlock had drawn the gun in one smooth motion and pointed it squarely at his brother’s forehead.

 

Mycroft reeled a step back in shock as his hand clenched on the handle of his umbrella. In the next instant he recovered enough to speak though there was a little-heard urgency in his voice. “Don’t be stupid, Sherlock. Do you think you can simply shoot me and walk out of here?”

 

“Sentiment, Mycroft? You really shouldn’t have made me an exception to your rule. You have informed no one. There’s no back-up. You cared too much about me to have me arrested as a traitor. Huge mistake.”

 

“Don’t throw your life away, Sherlock. Whatever he’s promised you, it’s not worth it.”

 

“Yes it is.” The fervent conviction in Sherlock’s voice brought a thoughtful expression to Mycroft’s face. Seeing as his brother made no move to stop him, he turned to leave. He prayed Mycroft would let him leave without any further interference but-

 

“And how do you plan on getting the case open, Sherlock?” he called. He turned to find that Mycroft’s stance had relaxed somehow and Sherlock knew that Mycroft had figured out that Sherlock was acting under duress. This was _his_ move to unmask any hidden players. Sherlock desperately shook his head a fraction, but Mycroft ignored him and his eyes seemed to linger for a moment on Sherlock’s jacket pocket before coming back to his face. His eyes had hardened but the disappointment and anger of a few minutes before had disappeared.

 

“Even a single mistaken attempt to punch in the code would activate a self-destruct mechanism which would destroy the contents of the box completely. It’s obvious that only I am privy to the code.”

 

It was his brother’s own way of throwing down the gauntlet.

 

***

 

John had stiffened visibly when the phone had rung. When Moran answered it, what he could hear of the one-sided conversation made his palms clammy. Sebastian had one eye glued to the telescopic sight of the rifle, as he spoke, “Yes he’s here now. Are you sure the target will follow?” Whatever Jim said brought an insane smile to his face. “You are unbelievable!” As if on cue he pressed his eye to the barrel again. “Oh there he is now, like a dog to the bone- bang on time. No… I don’t see anyone else. Apparently he’s all by himself. Bloody hell Jim, you’re a genius… Oh alright,” His eyes when they locked on John were positively shark-like, “Time for an introduction.”

 

He smirked as he squatted in front of John drawing a photograph from his pocket. The picture looked like it had been snapped from a surveillance camera. It presumably showed the man John was supposed to shoot, holding an umbrella and standing unobtrusively behind the… was that the finance minister? In the photograph he appeared entirely nondescript- reddish brown hair, balding at the forehead, pointed nose, posh suit- a picture of gentile civility which was conveniently forgettable. If his face hadn’t been marked with a pointed arrow, John would probably have ignored him entirely.

 

John swallowed, trying to rub his clammy hands against the back of his trousers, adrenaline making his pulse hammer against his eardrums.

 

 “You want me to shoot someone from the Government?” he asked. He could now see why Jim needed a fall-guy. Moran rolled his eyes, “He’s just a minor civil servant, nobody important… at least not officially. Though the only thing YOU should be concerned about is taking the shot and thanks to Jim _that’s_ going to be a piece of cake.”

 

John felt hot and cold at the same time as beads of sweat popped up on his forehead. Moran smirked. “Feeling the pressure now, are we Captain? Don’t worry; I’ve seen your record. This job is a snip for a man with your skills.”

 

John’s hands were handcuffed behind him and he could feel the tremor return in full force. How the fuck was he supposed to shoot a man if his hand won’t stop shaking? He fought to bring his breathing under control. _Sherlock!_ He reminded himself, lying helplessly on the bed as Jim… _FUCK!_ But try as he might, his trigger-hand seemed disconnected from his body.

 

Moran seemed to enjoy the spectacle as he gave a disgusted chuckle and continued speaking to his Boss. “He’s a quivering mess, Jim. I doubt he has enough co-ordination left to tie his shoe-laces right now. I’ll do it; you don’t need this piece of shit to actually pull the trigger.”

 

However Jim’s reply soured the expression on his face. “Are you sure?” He grimaced. “Fine,” he spat out. “You’re the boss.” Without looking at John he transferred the call to speaker-mode. The unpleasant undercurrent to Jim’s voice was evident. “I thought we had a deal, John.” Before John could gather his wits to formulate a reply, the voice switched to a jarringly cheerful tone. “Fortunately, ONE of us is a man of our word. And I did promise you that when you had to pull the trigger, you would do so quite willingly. And unlike you I keep my promises, darling. Sebastian,” the voice ordered. “Let him take a peek.”

 

Sebastian shrugged, but every line in his body was tensed for action as he dragged John forward and unlocked his hands before pushing him towards the window.

 

***

 

Knowing the rules and manipulating them to his advantage had always previously determined victory or defeat in his games with Moriarty. Sherlock took pride in the indisputable fact that he seldom made fundamental errors in judgement. But at this moment, when he needed his wits the most, the solid, logical ground that he had always taken for granted seemed to be crumbling beneath his feet.

 

Sherlock wasn’t naïve enough to have expected the insane criminal to follow his own rules. But alerting Mycroft about the theft had been like throwing in the towel, akin to shredding the game-board and setting it on fire. If Jim wanted the data, what purpose did this action serve? And just when he'd thought that defeat was certain it had been Mycroft’s turn to upset all of Sherlock’s predictions. He'd upended the board by acting sentimentally clichéd and _human_ for the first time in his adult life. He had actually considered letting Sherlock go, albeit without the data. Sherlock had no reference against which to weigh such an emotional response, neither for himself nor his brother.

 

Now as he faced his seemingly unarmed sibling, he felt helpless for the first time since he had agreed to participate in this game. He had no idea what Jim was thinking at this very moment, nor what exactly was Mycroft planning, and the ignorance terrified him. Jim had turned him into exactly what he was supposed to be- a passive piece on the board that had no choice in the game any longer.

 

“Persuade him, my dear,” the voice in his ear cooed. “We are going to need that code.”

 

For all his hedonistic tendencies, no amount of pain or torture could loosen his brother’s tongue. A simple non-fatal bullet placed strategically to cause maximum amount of pain would have worked on lesser men than Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock knew it was pointless but it wasn’t for his benefit anyway.  “I suppose it would be too much to expect that you would just give me the code, even on pain of death.”

 

Mycroft’s smile echoed in his voice, “You know me too well, Sherlock.”

 

“Oh, to hell with it! This is getting boring.” Jim grumbled. “Fine, change of plans. I’ve had enough of this. Motion him closer so that he’s in front of the window too.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened in horrified understanding as he gestured Mycroft forward with the gun. Mycroft’s sharp gaze never left his face as he positioned himself ideally for the sniper Jim probably had on them. That explained Seb’s whereabouts.

 

And the situation took on a veil of unreality as the voice continued to say, “And now my sweet puppet, repeat after me, Gottle o’ gear, gottle o’ gear, gottle o’ gear.”

 

***

 

Sherlock’s words confirmed what Mycroft had known all along but had been unable to prove- the identity of the hacker. That said, Jim Moriarty finally stepping out into the limelight to take a bow wearing his brother’s face was a development he had not anticipated.

 

All the accumulated aggravation over the years, the cause of Sherlock's endless hostility, the time and effort put into watching his brother constantly, had been to prevent _this_ exact scenario. Sherlock was the only chink in Mycroft’s armour. The two reasons why he hadn’t expected Moriarty to exploit this weakness to procure the data was that it would have been tediously predictable for someone like Jim who abhorred being unoriginal, and that he had never even for a moment considered Sherlock exploitable.

 

As Mycroft moved closer, the faint bruise marring Sherlock’s cheekbone was thrown into sharp relief and he struggled to control a wave of anger at the self-proclaimed criminal master-mind who had dared to lay a hand on his brother. He didn’t doubt that it had been Moriarty who'd dealt the blow; a minion would never be allowed to mark Sherlock like that. However the initial fury was swamped by an even greater rage at the realisation that Moriarty was somehow capable of controlling Sherlock like this. He had expected the theft, having thwarted Jim’s plans repeatedly. For Jim to have got such a terrible hold over his brother implied the existence of a weakness in Sherlock’s life that even Mycroft had been unaware of. Mycroft blamed himself for missing something this big and now Sherlock was paying the price.

 

Seeing his normally cold, stand-offish younger brother shake his head and mutely implore Mycroft to stay out of this had been the last straw. By the time this unpleasant business concluded, Jim Moriarty would be sorry for ever having touched Sherlock.

 

“Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock croaked. “Hi!”

 

Mycroft squared his shoulders and stood straighter. “Mr. Moriarty, I can’t say I’m surprised. Though I fancied that I deserved a more…personal introduction.”

 

Sherlock’s voice was a dead monotone. “Feisty, aren’t we? How can you say this isn’t personal? Admit it- you’re impressed. I mean, look at him- doesn’t he make a beautiful puppet?” Sherlock’s gun hand didn’t waver though his free had clenched into a fist at his side as he continued through gritted teeth.  “Don’t worry Iceman, we’ll enjoy a more detailed meet and greet some other time. Right now, I’m in a bit of a hurry. So if you would hurry up and give the code to your baby brother here, we could be on our way.”

 

“I think you overestimate your powers of persuasion. There is nothing you can threaten me with that will prompt me to reveal the key-code,” Mycroft answered smoothly, his simmering anger hidden behind the bland tone of voice. “However there is another way. Unlike my brother, Mr. Moriarty, we are chiefly businessmen. So I propose a sensible course of action here. How about- I exchange places with Sherlock here. Surely it makes more business sense to procure the key along with the lock and end this unpleasant impasse at the earliest.”

 

Sherlock’s expression was locked in a pose of vehement denial which melted into barely concealed relief as he received his next set of instructions. And like a switch thrown, Mycroft saw his brother’s features set into a look of determined resignation. “Oh smooth, but I don’t think so, Mr. Holmes. Only **I** am allowed to make new rules in this game. Sure, there’s nothing I can do to a big boy like you but-” Mycroft’s heart skipped a beat as Sherlock’s gun hand, which had so far been locked on him, moved smoothly to place the gun at his own temple- “You’ll find that you’ve rather revealed your hand there!”

 

“You won’t kill him," Mycroft said calmly. "Not like this. Sherlock Holmes isn’t any other hostage and you and I both know that.”

 

“True!” Though Sherlock’s face had paled even further, his voice remained admirably steady. “But I only value his _mind_ , Mr. Holmes. I could make him… shoot out his kneecaps,” Sherlock’s eyes closed before he uttered his next words, “Or make him paralyse himself. I don’t think you fully comprehend the extent of my control over your brother. I think a demonstration is in order. If you don't spit out the code by the count of three, Sherlock will shoot his left knee off. He'll do it sooner if you try anything else.”

 

Sherlock’s voice wavered towards the end as he aimed the barrel towards his knee and Mycroft suddenly found it very difficult to breathe. “One….”

 

“You will regret this," Mycroft ground out. There was no masking his true emotions now. Sherlock hadn’t opened his eyes, as if by keeping them closed he could spare Mycroft the sight. He knew Sherlock had already prepared to go through with it; had already calculated the outcome. Mycroft’s eyes raked the angular length of his brother’s arm and down to his feet. His cursed eidetic memory reminded him of every instance in the past when he had scorned Sherlock for his enthusiasm for ‘legwork’.

 

“Two…”

 

There was a faint tremor marring the steady baritone and Mycroft shuddered mentally as he weighed his loyalties against his… regard for Sherlock and found that he was helpless in the face of his own decision.

 

“Three,” This time Sherlock’s voice didn’t falter-

 

-Neither did Mycroft’s as he uttered in one breath, “76951384672766.”

 

***

 

John hadn’t known what to expect as he was dragged bodily to the rifle. He watched cautiously as Seb backed away after unlocking the hand-cuffs, the gun in his hand trained unwaveringly on John's head. Some detached part of his mind wondered at what Jim could possibly contrive that would make him a willing participant in this fiasco.

 

As he focussed the lens, he held firm to his determination to botch the shot, no matter the consequences. But he took one look and swore involuntarily as his heart stuttered. The powerful telescopic lens made the distant image jump deceptively closer and there was a mad moment where he wished he could simply fling his hand out and disarm Sherlock…

 

…Sherlock bloody Holmes who was standing with a gun in his hand, squarely trained on himself, facing the unarmed man John was supposed to shoot.

 

FUCK!

 

The phone remained ominously silent and John didn’t have to turn his head to know that Seb had flicked the safety off his gun. “Easy doc,” the gun-man taunted. “Point and shoot, remember?”

 

That was when the phone cackled and Jim came back online. “Come on John, will you shoot already or will you watch on as dear Sherlock cripples himself for life.” As if to underline his words, Sherlock’s gun-hand dropped down to point the blasted thing at his own knee. The rim of the site was digging grooves into the flesh beneath his clothing but John couldn’t tear his eyes away from the stand-off. Jim’s voice took on a persuasive edge. “Your life and freedom is forfeit either way, honey. Here’s your chance to make a gallant last gesture. Come on, chop chop!”

 

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

 

John had already decided to shoot when confronted with the bizarre view and his hands moved with practised precision to adjust the lens and focus on his target. He resisted the urge to thank Jim for making his job a lot easier.

 

In the space between two heart-beats, he sent up a silent prayer, hoping that it would work this time as well. _“Please God, let him live.”_

He held his breath as he fired.

 

***

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open before Mycroft could finish reciting the damned code.

 

He senses couldn’t reconcile the steadiness of Mycroft’s voice, betraying everything he had devoted himself to, betraying the last thirty years of his life… betraying every admonishment and hateful syllable uttered in Sherlock’s presence for the last ten years.

 

Sherlock had never hated Mycroft more than he did in that moment when he realized that, with a single action; his brother had redeemed himself in Sherlock’s eyes.

 

His ear-piece was ominously silent. It was time to leave.

 

Mycroft watched as Sherlock’s eyes grew too large for his face. This was the first ever time that he had betrayed weakness in his younger brother’s presence. Yet, the way Sherlock was looking at him now was very reminiscent of the time Mycroft had personally thrashed a bully who had dared to victimise his brother in school- like Mycroft had suddenly grown ten inches taller.

 

Before he could say anything in reassurance or warning, the adjacent window shattered with a loud crack.

 

 _Sniper!_ By the time his brain had reached the conclusion, Mycroft was already on the floor, reflexes and muscle memory taking over his higher thought processes momentarily. He thrust a hand in his jacket as he crawled away from the window, speed-dialling 9 on his phone which would automatically activate the coded alarm. One glance confirmed that Sherlock was on the ground as well, but he wasn’t moving. __

_Sherlock wasn’t moving!_

Mycroft forgot all about the sniper as sheer panic propelled him towards Sherlock’s prone form. He waited for the second bullet as he hooked his arms under his brother’s shoulders and hauled him towards the safety of the kitchen. Once there, he turned over Sherlock’s unresisting body and tore open the jacket to find a deep red stain spreading over the white shirt. He muttered an oath as he yanked the shirt open to find the entry wound low on the chest on the right side. Sherlock’s breathing was shallow and rapid, his eyes half-closed as he muttered incomprehensibly, hands twitching weakly at his side.

 

The position of the entry-wound puzzled him for a moment. It wasn’t possible for a sniper to miss that far. The shooter hadn’t intended to kill.

 

Mycroft pulled a clean towel from the worktop and pressed it tightly to the entry-wound with both hands. Sherlock gasped as his eye-lids flew open to focus on Mycroft’s face, pupils hugely dilated, panic etched over his expression.  “Shh,” Mycroft soothed. “Help’s on the way, Sherlock. Just breathe.” But Sherlock’s hands scrabbled frantically to clutch the front of Mycroft’s waist-coat, even as he struggled to speak between agonised breaths.

 

 “John…find John Watson. Jim’ll…he’ll kill…Kitty…ask Kitty… central London. Find…Don’t let him…” Sherlock gave a final moan before lapsing into unconsciousness.

 

Mycroft pressed down harder to try and staunch the bleeding as the sound of distant sirens grew louder.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all the readers who will continue to read the story even after a month's gap, my sincerest apologies. My only excuse is that I found this part incredibly difficult to write. I hope you liked the result.


	12. Chapter 12

Jim Moriarty was in his element. He was conducting an orchestra like no other and the music was building to a sexy finish. One flick of his metaphorical baton was about to change everything. It was going to break Sherlock Holmes and allow Jim to pick up the pieces. It was too bad that his vantage point didn't let him see Sherlock's face as he watched his brother's head explode into tiny pieces, the same brother who had just offered himself up to save Sherlock's life.

His games with Sherlock had hitherto been impersonal but this was changing the status quo. Sherlock was too brilliant to be wasted on the Yard and sundry. Jim wanted to be the sole focus of that magnificent brain. He was creating his biggest enemy. Sherlock would never forgive him for doing away with both his brother  _and_  his pet in the span of one game. Jim was craving for the centre-stage in Sherlock's mind.

Of course, if the consulting detective ended up too broken in the process, well, Jim had never been particularly careful with his toys anyway.

The overture from Gioachino Rossini's  _La gazza ladra_ built to a spectacular virtual crescendo in his head as he instructed John to take the shot.

That was the moment when the control room along with all the monitors sputtered and went pitch black and the music in his head squeaked off to an undignified finish.

It was a testament to his genius that even as he felt possessed by the grip of an overwhelming fury, he knew exactly what had gone wrong and was already calculating probable outcomes. His built in programming would ensure that the data on the hard drives would self-erase with such an intrusion. His mobile phone was next. He dropped the hand-set and stamped on it to force the casing open. The small custom built acid-pockets within the body of the phone would do the rest.

Note to self _\- Take Moran's suggestions a bit more seriously in the future._

Those maggots at the Yard had no idea who they were dealing with, or the price they would pay for this interruption. His nails had dug bleeding half-moon crescents into his palms by the time the emergency generators brought one of the two systems, the one which was not dependent on the Cray, back on line.

He was greeted with the view of the ceiling with a panicked but very much alive Mycroft Holmes, hovering against it as his camera was dragged along the ground.

 _Oh, dear, dear Johnny boy!_  Was it a wonder that he had almost married him?

He knew he had less than three minutes before the place would be swarming with incompetent policemen. To be arrested by the likes of them was unacceptable.

But he couldn't help himself. He threw his head back and roared with uncontrollable laughter.

* * *

John waited with his eye glued to the barrel and heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the government man drag Sherlock to safety, though the fallen Detective himself was out of his line of sight. This was surprising as he had assumed that a typical politician would bolt for his own safety and call the police. He went limp as he realised that Sherlock was now well and truly out of his line of sight.

He tensed as Moran's heavy footsteps drew nearer. He smiled secretly, unseen, as he realised that though he was probably about to die in retaliation for his disobedience, he didn't really care. Sherlock was safe and that was far more than he had expected to accomplish.

Moran was a sniper, a huntsman with unlimited patience who had learned to never underestimate his prey, however weak it may appear. But when he approached the kneeling ex-soldier slumped over the rifle, he was expecting a broken man, a man with a lifetime devoted to caring for strangers who'd just been forced to murder one against his will.

So John had the advantage of surprise when he whirled and attacked. Moran may have been nearly twice his size but his reactions were slow and the gun in Moran's hands skittered to a corner as a vicious elbow found its way into his solar plexus. John's feet were still bound but he had flung himself bodily, using his entire weight like a projectile, making Moran lose his footing and fall backwards, his body cushioning John's fall. The sniper's head hit against the fading marble floor with a resounding crack, and John held his breath hoping it was enough to have at least stunned him even as his fingers scrabbled for purchase on the bull-neck to render him unconscious.

But Moran's eyes flickered open and his hooded gaze was that of a striking cobra. John tightened his hands. Moran looked at the man attempting to pin him down and instead of defeat and desperation saw a barely hidden fierce triumph etched in every line of the weathered face. One look at John Watson and Sebastian knew that Jim's supposedly foolproof plan had gone incredibly wrong.

Moran jerked his head forward sharply, smashing it into John's face and breaking his nose with the impact. Head spinning, the doctor still held on grimly, but he didn't have a prayer against Moran's strength, especially not when his feet were bound. Moran flipped him over like a rag doll and returned the favour as his enormous hands unerringly grasped John's throat in a stranglehold.

"What the hell did you did you do?" Moran hissed as his grip tightened. John gasped, his bound legs flailing as his lungs screamed for oxygen. His fingers, which had been around Moran's neck, now clawed weakly at the hands crushing his windpipe. "WHAT DID YOU DO?" Moran screamed.

John coughed as black spots eclipsed his vision. He knew that there was no point in taunting a man on the verge of killing him, but he forced his eyes open through sheer force of will as he spat out. "He's safe…You… Jim can fuck off!" As if to underline his words, the sound of approaching sirens rent the air and Moran gave a snarl of rage as he grabbed John's head and smashed it to the ground again. As John lost consciousness, his last thought was that the abortive attempt had been totally worth the fury on Moran's face.

Moran scrambled to his feet and tugged and gun away from the window, before he barred it. Then he calmly dialled Jim only to be met by static…twice.

So, things hadn't just cocked up just at his end then.

He retrieved his gun. It would be a matter of minutes before the SAS personnel summoned by Mycroft Holmes narrowed the location of all the buildings the shot could have come from. He still had plenty of time to complete his job and walk away. But as he aimed his gun at the limp form, he hesitated.

Jim's game had gone to pot. Mycroft Holmes was still alive and Sherlock was beyond Jim's clutches, at least for now. If he killed John Watson, he would be destroying Sherlock Holmes' one and only weakness, for nothing. He had his orders, but instinct was telling him that the doctor needed to live if only for them to have any leverage over Sherlock in the future. Somehow he knew that Jim wouldn't have as much fun playing with Sherlock the second time around, if the doctor was dead.

Also Moran could grudgingly admit that a part of him was badly itching to kill the ex-soldier in a fair fight.

"Next time,  _Captain_ ," he addressed the fallen man as he holstered the gun and calmly left the room.

* * *

The task force that should have taken days to assemble only took hours because Lestrade was smart enough to use the name 'Moriarty' to barrel his way through the red tape. Smarter still to have not mentioned 'Sherlock Holmes' at any point, and it had motivated his superiors into surprisingly quick co-operation.

They had followed procedure and silently surrounded the building, cutting off the mains power-supply to all the apartments before storming the top floor. All the exits and entrances were covered. Moriarty and Company, if they were still in the building, were trapped.

Or so they had thought.

As Lestrade waited for the go-ahead from the alpha team, he was surprised to discover that deeper than his desire to finally arrest Moriarty was the wish that they find Sherlock unharmed. Not that the cocky bastard didn't deserve to learn a lesson for going off after a crazy mass murderer on his own.

But this was Jim Moriarty and, just like Sherlock, he proved himself to be in a class of his own.

When they finally stormed the top floor, all that was left were two still-warm bodies of what appeared to be guards. They had been shot cleanly in the head. There was hastily scribbled note attached to the door of what appeared to be some sort of control room. Lestrade just stopped himself from slamming his fist into the wall as he read it.

_Better luck next time. If there is one!_

It would be one more day before they discovered the body of the lift attendant lying at the bottom of the lift-shaft.

Needless to say that no one had looked twice at the small, shaking, dark-haired lift-man who was escorted out of the building along with the rest of the staff before the charge began.

The last time Sherlock had come closest to feeling this lost in his own head was when he had overdosed on cocaine. He knew he was dreaming and still couldn't bring himself to resist.

" _How could you spout all that to the police and not get arrested on the spot as the murderer?"_

" _They are not that dense, Victor. They have a penchant for coming to the obviously wrong conclusion. They predictably did accuse me and hold me under suspicion of murder."_

" _They can't just…what the hell! What happened then?" He looked worried and indignant on Sherlock's behalf, a near-complete stranger worried about the two days Sherlock had voluntarily endured a prison cell. No one had ever worn such a look on his behalf. He was familiar with fear, anger, hatred, exasperation, adoration…even pity (Lestrade was especially fond of that one), but he had to create a new section in his mind palace to classify the way Victor was looking at him right now._

" _Sherlock?"_

" _Huh…well, (Oh God, now he was mumbling like Molly Hooper), it was just for a couple of days. Lestrade was a Sergeant then. For some unknown reason he followed up on what I said and found the murderer and the evidence exactly where I had said it would be. And just like that, I went from being a suspected psychopathic killer to a Consultant for the Yard."_

" _You are…that was incredible."_

" _You do know that you are saying that out loud."_

" _And yet every time I say it, you look like you want to pinch yourself. And that's just wrong. I meant every word I said. 'Cause I know it's true."_

" _You are forming erroneous conclusions based on incomplete data, making me out to be some sort of a hero. I'm far from that, I'm not even a good man, Victor."_

" _I'm not naïve enough to believe that, Sherlock. For argument's sake though, with your ability you could have done anything, but you choose to help-"_

" _Immaterial! I don't care about the victim beyond the fact that they're a tool, a puzzle to be solved. That's all I care about. The harder the puzzle, the happier I am. That's all the victim is to me-a map, nothing more, nothing less."_

" _Alright, that's fine too."_

" _And just because you see me as some- what do you mean? You can't be serious? You really think its **fine**  that I'm at my happiest when presented with an especially gruesome corpse?"_

" _No, I think its fine that you have convinced yourself that you don't care. It's fine if not letting yourself care is what lets you do what you do. The shortest route to a destination is a straight line, but people don't like straight lines. You see the world as nothing but- and you don't hide that- that's amazing. It's fine that you're an annoying prick half the time because at the end of the day, whether or not you want to, you ARE doing the right thing. And that's all that matters."_

The memory fluttered off as thin as a wisp of air, as Sherlock struggled to hold on to it. He was on the brink of consciousness and for some undefined reason, he was terrified of waking up. That was strange. He usually loathed sleep. A strange faraway beeping reached his ears, and in what felt like the next instant, tendrils of sleep tightened their hold on him again. A part of his brain was screaming for him to fight, he was forgetting something very important. He ignored it. He was so tired.

Besides, with dreams like these, why would he wish to wake up?

* * *

John had not expected to open his eyes. He had, in fact counted on not waking up ever again. So regaining consciousness was the first unpleasant surprise. For a moment, he felt surprisingly woozy as the room swam in and out of focus. It took another few minutes for his memory to kick in and remind him that he had no idea where he was at present, and that he had been moved to an unknown location when still unconscious.

It was a plain, brightly lit room with a couple of plastic chairs off to the side of the bed but there weren't any other identifying features. The only reason why John was reminded of a hospital room was because of his railed bed, the plain white sheets and the i.v. stand with its bag of saline and the line trailing down to his hand- which he now saw was handcuffed to the bed-rails.

For a terrifying moment, he assumed he was back in Jim's clutches. Jim was sadistic enough to want to kill him slowly for his 'mistake'. The handcuff rattled ominously as he struggled to get up. He had already made a preliminary assessment and concluded that, other than a ringing headache and an assortment of bruises that he must have acquired during his grapple with Moran, there was nothing wrong with him. He took a deep breath and pushed himself up.

Only to be interrupted by a cool voice, "It would be highly inadvisable to do that, Captain Watson. You're not going anywhere for the time being."

It is not often that a sniper got to meet his intended target face to face. So it was a second most unpleasant surprise to find that the voice belonged to the man he had been expected to shoot; the stuffed coat public official. For some reason, he remembered how Jim had referred to the man in front of him as 'not very nice'.

But his body couldn't help but give a very visceral reaction to the fact that somehow he had escaped Jim, at least for now. He slumped back on the bed with a relieved sigh. He didn't want to speak to this stranger but desperation over-rode caution and he had to ask, "Sherlock… Sherlock Holmes, the man who was in your house… is he alright?"

The man continued to study him with a face that seemed to be carved from stone, for all the expression it was giving. He stepped closer, lightly tapping his umbrella to the floor but not taking his eyes off John even for a moment. "I'll be the one asking the questions for now, I think. Besides, it hardly seems appropriate to discuss Sherlock's condition with the man who shot him."

 _Bastard!_  John shut his eyes against the throbbing headache as he replied mulishly. "Well, I'm not talking to you either. You want my co-operation, you'll only get it if I can talk to D.I. Lestrade. And I know that you probably won't believe me but you can take these off-" he clanked his bound hand against the rails. "As you pointed out, I'm not going anywhere. I don't really have anywhere to go."

The suited man eyed him speculatively before moving forward and unlocking the handcuffs. Now that John could study the stranger at close quarters, he marvelled at how much a photograph could lie. He had judged this man as seemingly ordinary, practically invisible. Up close however, he was forced to re-evaluate his opinion. There was this air of menace about him that was impossible to miss. Not the in your face 'I can blow you to pieces' presence that Jim had, but something more subtle. Something dangerous that said 'I can make you disappear and even you won't understand what hit you.' John swallowed reflexively as he flexed his newly freed fingers.

"He's just out of Surgery," came the calm reply and John's head shot up so fast that it was wonder that it still remained attached to his neck. "That's not right… My shot should've gone through and…"

The man interrupted pointedly, "The glass on my window was specially reinforced and tempered. It affected the trajectory and the velocity of the bullet. It  _was_  supposed to do that in event of an actual kill-shot. It should have stopped the bullet altogether but you had quite the upper-hand when you used a rifle over a relatively short distance. Fortunately, you didn't miss by much. The Doctors have assured me that barring unforeseen complications, Sherlock should make a complete recovery."

John exhaled the breath he had been holding. "Good… That's good." That's when he realised that he had missed a crucial piece of the explanation-  _tempered glass on the windows of his house_. What the hell had Jim gotten him into? He couldn't help but blurt out the first question that came to his mind. "Who are you exactly?"

"It's unimportant."

"Right!" John snorted.

In response, the man sedately dragged a chair forward and sat down upon it, fixing John with steely brown eyes. The gaze filled John with dread.

"You, on the other hand, Doctor Watson, are far more interesting than me." He flicked open a small notebook, which John was certain was merely for effect, as manipulative as the gesture of unlocking him had been. Something about the man told John that if he so wanted, John would never even see the inside of a court-room.  _Calm down,_  he told himself.

"Let's see, a war-veteran and a doctor in a self-confessed relationship with the known criminal bomber, James Moriarty, for nearly half a year. One fine day, you turned yourself in, claiming that you had known nothing about your-" a pause as one eyebrow was raised mockingly in John's direction, "-prospective fiancé's illicit activities and offered to give evidence against him in court. Then conveniently, just a day before the Yard's planned sting, you disappeared, which led to the entire operation being scrapped."

The feeling of dread had formed a shard of ice in the pit of his stomach. It was a wonder John was able to find his voice, "When you put it like that…"

"I'm not finished."

John wisely shut up.

"I have no idea when your path crossed with Sherlock Holmes the first time, but I have reliable information that two days ago, you accompanied him home and spent the night at 221B Baker Street. And of course, today you shot him."

The book snapped shut with a finality that had John cringing inwardly. He instinctively defended himself. "I only met Sherlock two days back. He had a concussion. I spent the night to make sure he was okay. That's all."

"And in the space of the two days since meeting you, the world's only consulting Detective collaborated with a known criminal and terrorist bomber to steal highly classified defence documents. He was willing to shoot me to procure said files and as far as I have determined, the only leverage Jim Moriarty could have had over him was your continued survival." Mycroft leaned forward, his eyes flashed, "He almost paralysed himself to keep you safe, Captain Watson. And you claim to have met him two days ago. Shall we expect a happy announcement?"

John didn't know what to say.

"From where I'm standing, either you are completely innocent but an unprecedented fool to have been taken in and used by Mr. Moriarty to his own ends…or you were in on it with him from the beginning. I just wanted to say that if I find any evidence at all to support the latter, you will very sorely regret it."

Mycroft had smoothly swept to his feet and was almost out of the door, when John found his voice. To his own surprise, it was pulsing with the anger he had managed to hold back during Mycroft's little speech. "YOU were the primary target, you arrogant sod. You were supposed to die. But Jim had Sherlock and if you had any idea what he could have…" John shut his eyes and shook his head to bring his breathing and his voice under control and to banish the mental image of Jim toying with an unconscious Sherlock. "I shot Sherlock because it was the only alternative, the only way to make sure that he was out of Jim's reach. I wish I knew why I'm still alive but I would never have hurt anyone like that… much less Sherlock," he ended helplessly on a much lower note. But when he opened his eyes, the man in the suit was gone.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock's entire body felt like one giant bruise. He was no stranger to waking up in a hospital, but each minute of the last day that he had spent fully awake and contemplating John's fate had been excruciating, to say the least. The imbecilic staff of the hospital had spent over an hour poking and prodding him but no one seemed inclined to summon his brother or even Detective Inspector Lestrade as he had demanded. He was surrounded by stupid, simpering faces which did little to alleviate the swooping feeling in his gut. All they did was ask him to wait.

He was done waiting.

CLANG! The bedpan slammed against the door as Sherlock aimed it perfectly to just miss the nurse who was scrambling out hastily. Another shove and the medicines and paraphernalia on the side table went crashing to the floor. He then twisted around to reach his IV stand in a way that was definitely not good for his stitches but at this point he was far beyond caring.

He was rewarded for his efforts twenty minutes later, when his brother sauntered into the room sedately. Too bad that he had been fully restrained to the bed by then.

"Where the hell were you?" he yelled at Mycroft, wishing he could wipe the floor with the smirk on his face.

Mycroft eyed the mess and the restraints, but he also noted the sweat that had plastered his brother's hair to his forehead as he ignored the pain he was feeling. He tutted exasperatedly. "Most unbecoming, Sherlock. Though it's nice to see that you're back to normal so soon."

"Mycroft!"

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and saw what no one else could. Under all the bluster, his younger brother was coming apart at the seams. He took a seat before he began to speak.

"The bullet was removed from between your lower ribs and will not cause you any lasting damage. Thanks to your trail of bread-crumbs, Detective Inspector Lestrade was able to trace what we think is Jim Moriarty's current base of operation in London; the real one this time. Moriarty himself escaped arrest. Two individuals were found dead on location."

Sherlock's face turned paler than the sheets and both his fists gripped the blanket convulsively as he struggled to keep the already painful process of breathing under his control. This over-reaction was ridiculous. He needed more data. He had failed John but he would be damned before he let Jim escape the consequences of his action. "The sniper?" he sputtered, trying to breathe evenly while avoiding Mycroft's uncharacteristically gentle gaze.

"Oh, we certainly got him," the expression on Mycroft's face was too strange to decipher, but Sherlock didn't dwell on it. There were too many unanswered questions and Seb was the key. Why the hell had he been shot when Mycroft had already given up the code? Not to mention that Jim's right-hand man was most likely to know in which hole Jim was currently hiding. His voice was dangerous, "Where is he?"

"He's here in the hospital. You can see him in the evening."

"No! Right now, Mycroft."

Mycroft took one good look at his brother and instructed the staff to get a wheelchair. Outside the guarded room, Sherlock gestured his brother to stop before saying, "Don't interfere, Mycroft, whatever I may say to get him to spill his guts." Sherlock was planning to use the sniper's unhealthy obsession with Jim to his advantage and he didn't want his brother intruding.

The strange look was back in Mycroft's eyes as he simply nodded in acquiescence and pushed the door open before wheeling Sherlock inside.

As they entered, John Watson had turned and fastened his eyes on the wheelchair. For a frozen moment, Mycroft saw his brother's fingers clutch the chair-hands tightly as his shoulders visibly slumped.

John Watson however was not so restrained in his relief. "God, Sherlock!" He scrambled off the bed and approached the chair. Mycroft took a step back all but forgotten as John got down on his knees to come level with Sherlock, both his hands clutching his brother's shoulders. "Oh Thank God you're alright. I…I'm so bloody sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. Never. It was the only way. Jim wanted me to shoot him, but I'm so relieved you have no idea…"

John continued muttering and holding on to Sherlock as though his brother was the only thing anchoring him right now, but as far as Mycroft could see, Sherlock hadn't moved an inch since he had laid eyes on the ex-army doctor. His fingers twitched but didn't loosen their death-grip on the arm-rests. Finally, John too seemed to catch on that something was off. "Sherlock?" he asked softly, eye-brows drawn together in worry.

That was when Mycroft saw Sherlock's fingers loosen their hold and go limp and oddly still.

* * *

Sherlock had always considered himself a sociopath and to date he had conformed to the text-book definition of one. Now all the emotions he was experiencing thrummed like a shot of pure cocaine through his veins after a long withdrawal. John wasn't dead. He was alive, whole and here right in front of him…touching him, and everything in Sherlock illogically screamed to wrap the doctor in a hug and never let go. But his brain was already two steps ahead as usual. WHY? Why was John alive? Why had Jim let him live even after he had been brilliant enough to ruin Jim's game completely?

" _Can't threaten to burn what you don't have in the first place. So, I decided to make you one."_

Now John was looking at him expectantly. Brilliant, beautiful, human and yet utterly surprising John. The only one who had somehow managed to see Sherlock behind his armour and loved him for everything that he wished to be loved for. And in return, Sherlock would be the sword hanging over his head. The man who had warped the life of a good man even before meeting him. He was the reason why Jim had used John in every sense of the word and he would continue to do so, if Sherlock followed his heart.

_He was primed to fall in love with you. You were an exact antithesis; a Jim on the side of the angels. The poor sod didn't stand a chance._

In hindsight, it was so obvious. Even if what Sherlock was experiencing was love, what John was feeling wasn't. It was Jim Moriarty's twisted brain-child. A hideous thing, a parasite that would destroy John eventually if he encouraged it. As for how Sherlock felt, John didn't deserve something like Sherlock's love poisoning his existence.

And it was an indisputable axiom for Sherlock now that John had to exist. Sherlock was selfish enough to want that one thing for himself. Even if John couldn't be  _with_  him, he would be somewhere, alive, healthy and happy without the shadow of Jim Moriarty haunting him.

He drank in every line on John's face hungrily, etching the weathered features indelibly into his memory as he steeled himself to give the performance of a lifetime.

* * *

"I would have to say that you exceeded all my expectations with your quick thinking, John," Sherlock's voice was too light, too airy which made the compliment weightless and impersonal, like addressing a stranger. He continued in a similar vein, "But Jim isn't here now. So this display of affection is quite unnecessary."

John reeled back like he had been physically slapped. "What the hell are you… Sherlock…NO! You don't expect me to believe…No," he finally gasped.

Sherlock's tone was quiet, steady and utterly convincing but for some reason, Mycroft's eyes kept coming back to his limp fingers. "I believe that you're labouring under a misapprehension, John."

"No…" John was now shaking his head vehemently as if to block out the words he was hearing. He shot Mycroft a poisonous glare, "What did he tell you, Sherlock? Whatever he said, it isn't true. I didn't lead you on deliberately. I…I didn't know that Jim would use me against you like that. Please believe me. I'm telling the truth. I had no idea!"

"-What Jim was planning?" Sherlock completed the sentence, his voice still infuriatingly calm. It made Mycroft's skin itch. "Of course, I believe you. I apologise if my idiotic brother implied otherwise. Jim would never have confided his plans to you. You were never important or intelligent enough for him to do so."

"Then… I don't see it. What are you saying?"

Sherlock sighed tiredly, "You seem to believe that the things we said to each other in captivity, or rather I said to you, were in any way genuine. If so, you're sorely mistaken. I'm a proficient actor and the little scenario we played out was needed in order to throw Jim Moriarty off his game." He fingered the bruise on his chin as though making a point. "It worked beautifully. He was jealous and furious and he slipped up by forcing you to be the sniper. In fact, it's I who should be sorry for leading you on, but now in hindsight, even you must see the brilliance of my plan."

John's countenance had crumpled even further somehow, Mycroft noted. His questioning words sounded hoarse and haggard, "You kissed me, Sherlock, twice…And you said you loved me. Was that a lie too?"

"Yes," Sherlock said simply. "Our first kiss was a result of opportunity and convenience as you had so rightly put it. But the second was purely for Jim's benefit. I wish I could feel truly sorry for the words, but I had to use them. It was the only way to convince Jim of your willing involvement in my charade. You should thank your stars that it worked as well as it did."

For a moment, there was dead silence as John's eyes simply raked over Sherlock's face, his own countenance ashen. But when he spoke, the words sounded so dead as to have made the silence preferable. If Sherlock was speaking the truth (and Mycroft could logically see no evidence to the contrary), the man had every reason to shout, hit his brother even, and Mycroft was ready to intervene if need be. But John's eyes never left Sherlock's as all he did was square his shoulders and mutter a quiet, "I see."

Mycroft sensed rather than saw the tremor that passed through Sherlock in response.

"I think we should leave, brother," Sherlock murmured. "I seem to have overstayed my welcome."

John was still wordlessly kneeling on the floor, as Mycroft wheeled Sherlock out.

* * *

It was an uncharacteristically silent Sherlock that Mycroft finally returned to his bed, and Mycroft was just preparing to leave before he finally broke the quiet tension. "Bravo, Sherlock. That was quite the performance."

Sherlock was staring listlessly out of the window. "As I said, it was necessary."

"Oh, not the one you claimed to have orchestrated for James Moriarty's benefit, but the one you just gave. Very…moving. You almost had me convinced."

"Piss off, Mycroft."

"You're absolutely correct though, Sherlock. Caring isn't an advantage."  _Not if it makes you turn a gun on yourself_.

Sherlock smiled self-deprecatingly. "Apparently, just like my deductions, it also isn't something that can be turned off and on at will either." He looked at Mycroft and the naked plea in his eyes reminded Mycroft of how helpless he had looked as a hostage. He still was one, except this time it was his logic in control of his actions. "Keep him safe, Mycroft. I know you can, if you want to. He's- …none of this was his fault. Let him go wherever he wants, but watch over him. Even with me out of the picture, Jim won't forgive and forget."

"And you will focus all your energies on bringing Jim Moriarty to justice. How poetic! And if one day, you do succeed in bringing him down, at the end of this self-imposed hiatus, will you let Dr. Watson know how you really feel?"

There was a long pause which was an answer in itself, when Sherlock turned away from Mycroft to stare at the window again. "I'm very tired, Mycroft. Please close the door when you leave."

There were many things Mycroft wanted to say, but he held his tongue as he left. Besides, actions had always served him better.

* * *

Five, four, three, two, one… he counted silently as the guard slumped unconscious in John's tight grip. It had hardly been a challenge to sneak a Diazepam vial and a syringe from the medication trolley while on his way back from the bathroom. He had timed it to match the shift change, so in the chaos a patient slipping in and out was easily missed. He stripped the unconscious guard, laid him on his bed and re-checked his vitals to confirm that he would suffer no lasting ill-effects. Then he swiftly donned the suit the man had been had been wearing, thanking his stars that his guard had been blond-haired. Hopefully the similarity would help John evade detection as he slipped out. He wavered only for a moment before he decided to keep the gun with him.

He closed the door silently behind himself and set off down the corridor. He kept his pace relaxed and unhurried. He even sent a small smile in the direction of the new duty nurse as he passed her. It was the dead of the night and it showed in the exhausted smile she sent his way. Ignoring his deepest wish to find Sherlock, who was somewhere in the same building, he stabbed the lift button for the ground floor. He stepped out of the lift and calmly walked out of the building.

He was on the street and contemplating his hitherto unplanned next move, when a huge black saloon with reflective windows smoothly coasted to a stop in front of him. He took a step back uncertainly just as the back door swung open, followed by the overly unctuous voice. "Get in, Doctor Watson."

John swore as his fingers found the gun and flicked the safety off. How the fuck did he do that? It had taken him less than fifteen minutes to 'escape'. God, as far as general creepiness was concerned, Sherlock's elder brother could give Jim Moriarty a run for his money.

"I assure you that you won't be needing the gun. I only wish to speak with you."

John considered. He realised that he was putting off the inevitable. He got into the car, glowering at its other occupant.

The man looked entirely unconcerned. "We seem to have got off on the wrong foot. Allow me to introduce myself properly. I'm Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's unfortunate elder brother."

"How did you know that I was escaping?" John had been good enough that the guard hadn't had any time to raise an alarm.

"I had your room under audio and video surveillance, Doctor. You could hardly expect me to fall prey to same folly as both Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes. They underestimated you and seeing the result of that, I am inclined not to. However, this cloak and dagger routine would have been quite unnecessary if you would have only waited till morning."

"Does this mean, I'm free now?"

"Essentially, yes."

"Then could you please stop the car and let me out? I can make my own way from here," John managed through gritted teeth.

"Is that wise? Do you believe that you can evade Jim Moriarty on your own for the foreseeable future? Wouldn't you like to contemplate some more options that are now at your disposal? I can ensure that you're protected- new identity, new papers, new country, if you so wish. You could have a quiet rural practice, where you could even have a family someday. If that's not exciting enough for you, how about a position in 'Doctors without Borders'? You are a good man and your records show that you were a capable physician. There are a lot of people you could help, out in the world. You must surely see how Jim Moriarty would never leave you in peace for your disobedience."

John's lips had tightened noticeably through Mycroft's little spiel. "And what if I were to tell you that I hope Jim finds me. I hope he does because that will save me the trouble of finding him. Because I won't rest until I do."

Mycroft gave a small smile of realisation, as he finally deciphered the rage in the deep blue eyes. "It didn't really work, did it?"

Something broke in John at the sight of that smile and he finally vented what he had thought he would never get to say. "That's because your brother may be a genius most days, but he's also quite capable of being a spectacular prat. I know him for real, Mr. Holmes. He's a complete nutter, but he does care. If he felt that he could convince me otherwise, he's a bigger fool than I thought."

Mycroft's gaze was puzzled, "For someone who just found out that his last real relationship was a well-concocted lie, aren't you being too loyal, too quickly?"

"I may not be as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes, but it's a simple enough calculation. If Jim is the reason why Sherlock would prefer to ignore his feelings rather than face them, then he has to go. And for that, I have to find him." John's gaze dared Mycroft to object his statement. "Besides, I have a personal score to settle with him as well."

Mycroft huffed out a small laugh, "Scratch my earlier words, Dr. Watson. You are a far more devious man than even I had imagined. Pray, tell me then, if you and Sherlock are both planning to make hunting down Jim Moriarty your life's mission, why not do it together?"

"That had been my original plan before your thick-headed brother decided that I needed baby-sitting."

Mycroft stroked his jaw as he considered. "Fortunately, that situation can be remedied quite easily. Sherlock has given me free rein in arranging your protection. He has also instructed me to allow you to stay where ever you wanted to. And I know of an excellent flat-share in central London that is already under the highest surveillance it is possible for me to arrange. Quite safe. The only hitch is that you would have an asinine room-mate underfoot all the time. What do you say?"

John's mouth had dropped open before he realised that Mycroft was quite serious. Then his lips curved upwards in a wicked smile that reached his eyes, "You wouldn't dare!"

Mycroft nodded as he sat back smiling slowly, "I think we are going to be seeing a lot more of each other, Doctor Watson."

**The End... (for now.)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (My beta suggested and I agreed that this would be a fitting place to end a story titled WITNESS PROTECTION. I am planning a sequel, sometime in the future, but (especially) those of you who have followed this story since it started on the meme would know how the gaps were becoming too long. I want to write the sequel spontaneously, which is not happening at the moment. If and when I do write it, it'll be a complete one-shot, however long it may be. But for now, the story is complete. Thanks to each and every reader and reviewer who didn't let me give up on it on more than one occasion. You rock!)
> 
> p.s. For those who may be interested, I have a Sherlock fic-rec blog on my Tumblr, where I rec at least one fic a day (Today is day 175). And I've compiled a Sherlock-whump rec-list with ~70 stories which is regularly updated, the link to which is on my tumblr, (link- http://missilemuse.tumblr.com/) Enjoy!


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